


Stanford Goes to Stanford

by kinky_dominasterisk



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Oral Sex, Trans Character, beta couple bill/ford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinky_dominasterisk/pseuds/kinky_dominasterisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines attends Stanford University in the 90's. His brother lives with him and their transgender roommate Rick Sanchez in their Palo Alto apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to anyone who actually attends Stanford. Just think of it as a Stanford U from an alternate reality.

It was Stanley’s idea, just as a joke. Stanford agreed, because he thought it was funny, even though their dad got mad at them for wasting money on the application. Filbrick was less mad, however, when Stanford was actually accepted in Stanford University. His anger waned almost completely, when the acceptance letter informed the Pines family that Stanford’s grades had merited him a substantial amount of scholarships. It wasn’t a full ride, but it would help. Still, looking over the costs, it was clear the pawn shop didn’t bring in enough money to cover the rest. Student loans were an option, but daunting. Nobody wanted to be saddled with a massive debt just for trying to make something of themselves. 

But Ford was determined to attend Stanford University. Their science program was far too renown to pass up. He applied to outside scholarships. He applied for grants. He applied to FAFSA. He did everything he could to minimize the cost his Pa would have to pay out of pocket. Eventually, he could convince his father to let him accept the offer to study in Stanford. The twins graduated, Ford salutatorian and Stan just barely. Ford prepared for his future at Stanford during the summer. Stan bummed around until Pa forced him to look for a summer job. Stan pretended at it. It wasn’t a small town, but it was small enough for business to know Stan’s reputation. Hardly anyone was willing to hire him, and that was fine by Stan, as he was hardly willing to be hired. Summer went by and Stan barely made a cent. 

Meanwhile, Ford was troubled over non-tuition costs. The biggest one was housing. Staying in a dorm was simply too expensive. Perhaps he could find an apartment a little ways from campus, find a roommate or two, and split the rent. He’d have to figure out the bus systems, but surely there would be buses that led directly to campus. Stan was supportive of the idea. He even offered to drive Ford across the country a month before the semester started to go apartment hunting. Clearly Stan was angling for a cross country road trip, probably with treasure hunting on the side. 

“The gold rush happened in California, didn’t it?” Stan had said. 

“That was over a hundred years ago. The gold’s all gone now.” Ford was impressed Stan had even remembered that history.

‘Hey, there might be a cave they didn’t find back then.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “If you can convince Pa.”

Filbrick didn’t need convincing. If Stan could get the money to pay for gas and hotels, Filbrick would pay the plan no mind. Ford needed to get to Palo Alto somehow, and the Pines didn’t have the money for a plane ticket. Ma was upset her sons would be leaving a month earlier than expected, but she made up for it with lots of hugs and kisses. On the road, Ford noticed Stan did have money for expenses, entirely in cash.

“I may have dabbled in some independent entrepreneurship during the summer,” Stan explained while pumping gas. “Dad doesn’t know, of course.”

“Why didn’t you just get a real job?”

“Hey, both Ma and Pa run their own businesses. I’m just continuing family tradition.”

Ford rolled his eyes. Stan was always slacking, and looking for an easy way out. What was he going to do when he moved out and didn’t have Ford or Ma to fall back to? 

It took about a week to get to California from New Jersey. They stopped by significant landmarks, Mt Rushmore and the like, because those were the types of things you had to stop for during road trips. Ford had brought notebooks with him in preparation for his classes, but his compulsory notetaking on observations ended up filling them up before even crossing the Californian border. When the twins left New Jersey, Ford had six notebooks. When they arrived in Palo Alto, Ford had sixteen. 

California was different. The sky was bright. There were trees everywhere. The real estate was exorbitant. The twins were discouraged quickly after walking into a few real estate agencies. Most of them only sold houses or condos looking for well off couples for clients, not two working class brothers trying to avoid campus housing. Then they realized they could probably look in the classified ads of newspapers for people who were looking for roommates. They had to move quickly. The money from Stan’s “entrepreneurship” was running out. If they wanted to stay any longer, one of them would have to get an actual job. Ford could not, because he didn’t yet know his school schedule, so it was up to Stan. Ford insisted on Stan getting some legitimate employment, so Stan found himself in a pizza restaurant from 9AM to 4PM on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. The paycheck looked pretty at first, until they remembered how much it cost to live in the city. 

In the classifieds, they found a potential roomie quickly. His name was Rick, he was also a Stanford student not willing to pay the college any more than he already did, and he was in the same program Ford was in. His two bedroom apartment was clean, relatively cheap, and more importantly better than the motel the boys were staying at. They could breathe a little easier once they signed the lease. But the thing about apartments is once you take care of one thing, another problem arises. They needed beds, first and foremost. After that would tableware if Rick wasn’t willing to share. They would need a lot of things. Rick kept the place surprisingly under furnished. 

“It’s called minimalism,” he explained when they were having breakfast on the floor. 

“Or being broke,” Stan replied. 

Rick sneered at him. 

The Pines boys sent their father their new address and their father agreed to send a check of thirty dollars every month to cover personal expenses. Thirty dollars, truthfully, would do jack shit, but the twins were willing to take all the money they could get. School started in a week and Ford would need textbooks. Working at the pizza restaurant got Stan enough money to buy a couple of mattresses. Ford needed a desk to do work at, but he made do with a pair of cinderblocks and a board of plywood salvaged from a heap yard. Stan promised to buy Ford a real desk once he saved up enough. 

Orientation came. Stan dropped Rick and Ford Monday at eight on campus. A giant banner screaming, “Welcome Class of 1996!” hung across the gates of Stanford University's main entrance. A group of orientation advisors with matching shirts and matching smiles stood under the banner ready to greet the incoming freshmen. Because the groups were organized by last name, Ford and Rick were separated into different orientation tours. Ford’s orientation advisor was a girl named Sarah with golden blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and teeth whiter than freshly bleached tile. 

Sarah was the type of girl who was always ready to start the day but put five shots of espresso in her latte just in case. She was a high energy person, past the point of bubbly, more in the area of hypermanic. She started her tour first, because she prized herself on efficiency and also because no one could possibly ignore her demanding voice to follow her. She led the tour quickly, showing the most important buildings on campus like the library, the science buildings, the arts and language center, and select museums that were the pride of Stanford University. Her tour ended in the student union building, where there were various eateries the new students could buy lunch. Before letting her charges go, Sarah called roll a final time and gave them their orientation packets. Ford found his schedule, a map of the school, and more specific information about the facilities on campus in the manila folder. 

“Hey, Pines, what are you scheduled for?”

Rick’s voice made Ford jump. 

“Jeez, don’t have a heart attack.”

“Don’t sneak up behind me,” Ford grumbled. “This isn’t a school for scaring.”

Rick scoffed and took Ford’s orientation packet. “Hey, we’ve got the same sciences.”

Ford took his schedule back. Christ, he had a physics lab at seven in the morning. Did the buses even run that early? Ford looked over his other classes. The physics lecture was later in the day. He also had biology and chemistry classes. After his science classes, he had a few general education requirements legally obligated by the state of California. Then he had Beginning Drawing, Oral Communications, and Intro to Latin.

“Would you fucking believe this?” Rick pointed at his schedule. “They’ve got me scheduled for Elementary Spanish. My last name is fucking Sanchez.”

“It’ll be an easy A for you then,” Ford looked at the map, mentally planning out paths to his classes. 

“If I don’t skip it,” Rick crumpled his packet into a ball and tossed it in the trash. “What are you eating?”

“I don’t have cash, so I’m not eating. I’m going to walk around campus to find out where my classes are.”

“Alright, LAME,” Rick rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you at home.”

Ford said his goodbyes to Rick and left the student union building. He retraced Sarah’s steps and thoroughly explored the buildings where his classes took place. He formulated a path he thought would be the most efficient way to get from lecture to lecture, but he would only find out when classes started and he could measure the true foot traffic of the school. Ford finished marking his map and decided to go home. He wasn’t paying attention when he turned the corner and collided with another student carrying a tower of textbooks. Imagine one of those hilarious meet-cutes that happen in romantic comedies set on college campuses. It was like that. Books and papers went flying. Ford lost his glasses, and so did the other student. The other student apologised profusely, and Ford apologized back. They both got on their hands and knees, squinting and patting the ground to find their respective glasses. Ford found a pair but they were too circular and small to be his. He traded them with the other student for his proper glasses. 

“Sorry about that, again,” the student began to pick up the books around them. 

“No, no, I wasn’t paying attention,” Ford helped. 

Together, they collected a stack of six thick textbooks and the papers of one orientation packet. 

“Thanks for the help,” the student bent over to pick up his stack. 

“Not a problem,” Ford said. “Do you need help carrying those to your dorm? They look heavy.” 

“Oh, I’m just bringing them to my car. I don’t live on campus. I’d love the help though.”

Ford took half the stack and followed the student to their car. “My name’s Ford, by the way.”

“Not Fiddleford, I hope,” the student chuckled. “Because that’s my name.”

“No, no, Stanford, actually.”

“Seriously!?” Fiddleford burst out laughing. “Your name is Stanford and you go to Stanford University?”

“Yeah, that’s, heh, actually part of the reason why I applied.”

“Oh my god.”

“Five percent of the reason. I also applied for their science program.”

“Oh yeah, its pretty good here.”

The two Fords reached the parking lot. Fiddleford led Stanford to an old, faded, yellow volkswagen bus.  Fiddleford kicked open the passenger door and dumped his books into the seat. As Stanford passes his stack of books to Fiddleford, he realized he would need textbooks too. After saying goodbye to Fiddleford, he took out his map and made for the campus bookstore. 

The bookstore was not a pleasant experience. He didn’t know exactly which books he would need but from looking at the sections, they were all going to be expensive. Even picking out the cheapest textbooks would total him over three hundred dollars. Stanford went home pale faced. The check from FAFSA wouldn’t come for another two weeks and Pa’s check was somewhere in the mail. On the bus home, Ford considered his options. He’d had to get a job, now that he knew his schedule. There had to be work-study programs on campus, maybe he could get a job tutoring. If not, at an establishment near the school or near the apartment. Maybe at Stan’s pizza place? In the meanwhile, he’d have to hope that the library had textbooks on reserve. Rick had said he and Ford had the same sciences. Hopefully Rick would be willing to share his textbooks. 

“Yeah, uh, that would have been a great plan,” Rick said when Ford told him about the textbook problem. “If, ah, if I had planned on buying textbooks in the first place.

Ford gaped at Rick. “How do you plan on passing if you don’t have the textbook?”

Rick snorted. “All the textbook is good for is doing readings, which you don’t need to do if you pay attention to the lecture. Or already know more than the teacher does.”

“And you know more than the professor does?” Ford folded his arms and arched his brow. 

“Sure do,” Rick chugged down his fifth beer of the hour. 

Ford threw his hands up in exasperation and went to his room. He flopped face first onto his mattress and groaned into the pillow. His brother was eating toffee peanuts on the other side of the room. 

“How was school?” Stan asked in his patent pending mom voice. 

“Trouble. My textbooks cost three hundred dollars. Three hundred dollars we don’t have. Maybe more.”

“Yikes. Well, my paycheck comes tomorrow, I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Ford rolled over and faced his brother. “You’re already paying my share of the rent for me. I need to get a job fast. Your place still hiring?”

“Filled the last spot,” Stan shrugged. “Couldn’t you, like, tutor or something? That pays like twenty five bucks an hour right? People here really got money.”

“Yeah, I’ll look around,” Ford sighed. “This is gonna be tough.”

“Hey,” Stan walked over and sat on Ford’s mattress. “Long as we got each other, right?”

Stan held his hand up with a smile. Ford chuckled and pressed his palm against Stan’s. 

“As long as we have each other.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rick didn’t care if the class started at 11:55, it was still a morning class and the morning was too early to listen to some blonde haired, blue eyed white girl introduce herself as “Profesora Miller-Simmons” in literally the worst accent he’d ever heard. 

“Buenas dias, clase!” She chirped at the class. 

“Buenas dias, profesora!” Some front row students recited back. 

Rick pressed the heel of his palm to the bridge of his nose. He was definitely going to skip this class. “Profesora” Miller-Simmons was clearly just a student teacher and didn’t need to be taken seriously. Rick started to pack up and leave. 

“Ah, ah, ah!” Miller-Simmons had the eyes of a hawk. “I take off participation points if you leave early! And participation is twenty percent of your grade!”

Rick glared at the girl. Normally he wouldn’t care. He’d still get eighty percent of a grade, but his mother would probably kill him if he got less than an A in Spanish of all things. Rick sat his ass back down and listened to the rest of the lecture. 

Miller-Simmons explained she took roll at the beginning and end of every class. She required everyone to bring their textbook, workbook, and translation dictionary to each class as participation. To earn full participation points, a student needed to raise their hand at least five times. Other ways to earn points was to engage in conversation  _ only  _ in Spanish. 

“This is a  _ conversational _ class!” Miller-Simmons told the class. “You need to be able to  _ speak  _ Spanish to  _ learn  _ Spanish. You also need to do the work. There’s a vocab quiz every week, and homework every day. It’s all very easy if you study, so there’s no excuse.”

Rick decided he was going to need hard liquor for this particular class. 

Meanwhile, Ford felt similarly about his Latin class. All he knew was some rudimentary Spanish from poorly funded high school classes. He had been under the impression that Spanish had developed from Latin, but looking at the vocab sheet the professor had passed out each word seemed to him an unfamiliar collection of letters. The textbook the professor had on the syllabus and held up for the class was the most expensive Latin textbook the bookstore had offered, $125. 

“I can’t pay for that,” Ford wheezed. 

“No one can,” said the student next to him. “Well,  _ I  _ can, but nobody else in here I bet.”

“Does he just want everyone to fail?”

“Relax, I know at least a couple of kids in here are gonna pool together to buy a book they can share. If ya want, we can share the book.”

Ford looked at the student as if they were offering manna from heaven. “What do I owe you?”

“Oh, nothing yet,” the student chuckled. “Name’s Bill Cipher. Nice to meetcha.”

They shook hands and exchanged contact information. The professor continued to review his syllabus as his lecture for the class. He let the class out early after he had everyone sign the back page and turn it in for attendance points. Despite the extra time, Ford immediately went to the building that held his next class, Oral Communications. He hoped, if he was very lucky, the class wouldn’t require a textbook given it was oriented on speaking. On the other hand, he was terrible at public speaking and hadn’t been lucky enough to be placed in Written Communications. Maybe there  _ were  _ textbooks on how to speak. 

As Ford waited for his next class in the history complex, Stan waited in his room. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, probably for his brother to come home. He really needed something to do, but what? Clean the apartment? Cleaning’s for girls. But he  _ really  _ needed something to do to fight off the boredom, so Stan got up and went to the kitchen and found Rick did not keep cleaning products under the sink. He didn’t find them under the bathroom sink either. That was fine, Stan didn’t really want to clean anyways. He checked the fridge. Maybe eating would solve his boredom. The fridge was embarrassingly empty. He could go out to eat. Stan grabbed his coat, went outside, remembered California was hot as balls in September, and went back inside. He left his coat and tried again. A t shirt and jeans were much more suitable to the weather. Stan drove about without aim. Maybe he’d get another job if he was going to be bored like this every day. 

Before he knew it, Stan found himself in what he guessed was the seedier part of town. Or maybe it was a different town. Did Palo Alto even have a bad side? The answer was yes, but Stan didn’t know that. What Stan did know was this place had a strip club, and he could afford to spend some money. His fake got him in easy; the bouncer didn’t know what to look for in a real Jersey ID. 

The club had both male and female dancers. Stan grinned, his type of club. There was a particularly beefy male dancer in the corner whose ass seemed to be calling Stan’s name, and the bulge in his pink pleather shorts were an echo. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Stan clicked his tongue at a waitress dressed as a sexy bee. “Get me two gin and tonics, on the rocks.”

The waitress forced a smile and scurried away. Stan found himself a seat in front of the dancer, apparently named the Pink Pounder. The Pounder was pretty, but he couldn’t dance very well. Stan was pretty sure he could dance better. He wondered if he could get a job at the club. How old did a guy have to be to be a stripper? The sexy bee brought him his drinks. 

“Anything else, cutie?” She hummed. 

“You hiring?”

“Mr. Poe isn’t looking at any new applications, but if you enter in the dance contest he might be interested,” the bee pointed at the paper flyers on the tables. 

“Sweet,” Stan picked up the flyer but couldn’t read the print in the blue and purple strobe lights. He stuffed it in his back pocket for later. 

Two gin and tonics later, Stan got tired of the Pink Pounder’s offbeat gyrating. There weren’t any other dancers he was interested in, so he decided to go home. He told himself he was only buzzed, and he could totally drive himself home. Back in the nineties, there weren’t any “buzzed driving is drunk driving” billboards to dissuade a tipsy Jersey boy from driving after two gin and tonics. 

Luckily, Stan made it home without any incident.  He wobbled a little going up the stairs to the apartment, but those stairs were troublesome sober. He was surprised to find the door unlocked but didn’t really pay attention to it. There was a person inside, but it couldn’t have been a burglar as there was jack shit to steal. It was just Rick, pouring vodka directly into the orange juice carton. And drinking directly from the orange juice carton. 

“Your class over or what?” Stan’s words were just the slightest bit slurred. 

“Nah, I gotta leave in like, minutes. But my Spanish class was so bad, I had to get absolutely shitfaced,” Rick walked out of the apartments kitchenette into the living room. 

It registered to Stan that Rick was shirtless, and there was something off about Rick’s chest. 

“Whassa matter, Pines? Never seen a pair of tits before?”

Stan hadn’t realized he’d been staring. “No, I-”

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Rick put his hand on his hip and puffed out his chest. “Here, take a good look.”

“Sh-shut up,” Stan stuttered. “I thought you were a dude.”

“I  _ am  _ a dude,” Rick’s smirk fell. “I just, you know, used to be a girl first.”

“Okay,” Stan didn’t have a fucking clue what that meant. “So you got a dick, or?”

Rick snorted. “I gotta get to class, man.”

Stan watched as Rick went into his room and heard the click of the door locking. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say? Rick came out shortly, with a flat chest and a shirt that said “my boobs are a secret” in capital letters. 

“Hey man, you mad at me?” Stan asked. 

Rick stuffed the orange juice carton in his back pack. “Nah man, you’re just an idiot,” Rick ruffled Stan’s hair. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Stan frowned, but let it go. Rick wasn’t entirely wrong. Stan’s grades were shit, and his face looked nice now that all those zits cleared up. 

“Let me have a shot of that before you go,” Stan pointed to Rick’s backpack. 

Rick grumbled but let Stan have the orange juice carton. Stan took a swig and nearly choked. It was almost entirely vodka. Rick laughed at him and took back the carton to put back in his pack. Rick slipped out the door and left Stan to suffer from the burning sensation of the not quite Screwdriver.  

Stan found some real juice to chase down the vodka. Cranberry wasn’t his favorite, but it was sweet enough to cut the taste in his mouth. Stan’s buzz was veering on being a proper drunken state, and he was feeling a little horny. He should have paid for a lap dance at the club. Stan took the flyer out of his back pocket. There was a girl on a pole as the main image and then the words “dancing contest!” In bright yellow. At the bottom was a promise of a $500 cash prize. Stan didn’t read the fine print on the back. He was too busy looking at the girl. She was busty and long legged and perfect jack off material. 

Stan locked himself in the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet seat cover, he felt himself up through the fabric of his jeans. Booze and horniness were a great afternoon combo. Stan unzipped his pants and let his boxers tent up. He was always pleased to see how high the tent would go before taking out his cock and stroking it to a full erection. 

Stan adjusted his position so he could lean back and lift up his shirt without having the hem fall. While he stroked himself with one hand, the other hand played with Stan’s nipples. Stan was the kind of guy who grunted when he jacked off, instead of doing anything graceful like moaning or whispering someone’s name. He thought about the girl on the flyer, and how nice it would be to have his cock between her tits. They were nice and big, but they looked a little too perky. They might have been fake. Suddenly the girl lost her appeal. Big tits were nice, but what good were they if they were stiff as plastic and didn’t bounce? 

Rick’s tits probably bounced, Stan thought. They were kinda small, but there was enough substance for a handful for each hand. And they were perky, the natural way. Just the way Stan liked them. Stan stroked himself a little harder to the fantasy of getting a titjob from Rick. It was nice to have the apartment to himself, so he could be as loud as he wanted. 

When he was finished, Stan wadded up some toilet paper to clean himself off. After fixing his clothes, he went into the kitchenette and saw the microwave telling him it was six and dinnertime. Stan opened the fridge, forgetting he’d opened it earlier and there was still nothing meal worthy inside. He grumbled and so did his stomach. Stan grumbled some more and went out to buy himself a dinner. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ford was waiting for his physics class to start. Specifically, he was waiting for the teacher to arrive. It was twelve minutes into class with no show and already people were talking about the fifteen minute rule. 

“Hey whassup. The teacher not here yet?”

Ford nearly jumped out of his seat. “God dammnit, Rick.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re a giant weenie.”

Ford grumbled as the clock ticked on. As soon as the fifteen minute mark passed, people began packing up. Then the doors to the classroom burst open, and a young man in a lab coat ran to the classroom’s desk. 

“Siddown! You get to leave at the  _ sixteen _ minute mark!” 

The class groaned and went back to their seats. 

“Are you Mr. Mendoza?” A girl asked. 

“I’m  _ a _ Mr. Mendoza,” the man answered. “Which is good enough for you guys.”

“So you’re not our teacher?” Another girl asked. 

“Your teacher is currently drunk as hell, and frankly so am I. Don’t tell the dean. I’m your Mr. Mendoza’s son, so for all intents and purposes I too am Mr. Mendoza.”

“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” Rick sniggered. 

“Don’t worry, I can teach you guys physics, but first we need to go over the stupid syllabus.”

Mr. Mendoza got a stack of papers from his briefcase and passed them out. 

“Why isn’t your dad here to teach us?” A guy asked. 

“How much are you guys paying to be here? Sixteen thousand a year? Oh and i guess plus room and board, so like, twenty two thousand. You’re going to take twelve classes this year, I assume you’re all full time. So twenty two divided by twelve, that's almost two thousand,” the young Mendoza said. “You are  _ paying  _ two thousand dollars to attend this class. My dad is  _ paid _ about six hundred dollars for this class. Honestly, I’d rather be drunk too. I am drunk. Again, don’t tell the dean.”

The class seemed satisfied with that answer. Most were curious how the lecture would turn out. 

“I’m sure you all know how the grading and honesty policies work by now, you can read the actual paper on your own time. This is the textbook,” Mr. Mendoza pulled out a fat textbook from his case. “It’s 190 bucks. Do not buy this. It is not worth it. You’re just going to try to sell it back at the end of the semester and the bookstore will buy it back from you for nineteen bucks. Instead, I’m just going to not assign any homework from the book.”

The class tittered in excitement.

“What I am going to do is give quizzes at the last fifteen minutes of class. It will cover material that I literally just lectured about during that class, so make sure you take notes and pay attention! This is literally going to be the easiest A in physics you will ever get!”

The class chattered happily.

“Any questions? No? Good! Time for a quiz.”

The class groaned. 

“Literally, I just told you I was going to do this. Look it’s open note-”

“But you haven’t lectured about anything!” The first girl complained. 

“The quiz is about the syllabus. That little packet you have in front of you. This is how I take attendance. Now no talking,” Mr. Mendoza pulled a different stack of paper from his briefcase to pass out to the class. 

There were fifteen questions on Mendoza’s quiz. They asked about the grading and honesty policies outlined in every class’s syllabus. They also asked why students should not buy the physics and how the class would be conducted. There was an extra credit option on the back. 

“What is the one thing Mr. Mendoza asked you to not do?”

Ford wrote down “Don’t tell the Dean.”

Rick was waiting for Ford outside the class. 

“You taking the bus home?” Rick was drinking from the orange juice carton. 

“Yeah, you?” Ford grimaced. He was sure that was from the fridge from home. 

“Nah, I’ve got a car. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

Ford followed Rick to the parking lot. 

“Jesus,” Ford said when he saw Rick’s car. 

“I know, it’s like it’s made out of tinfoil,” Rick opened the driver’s door to the beat up Ford Pinto. 

“God, it smells like a distillery,” Ford complained. 

“It  _ is  _ a distillery,” Rick started the car. “I literally have beer and moonshine brewing in the back.”

“Ok, I’m not riding with you,” Ford began to walk away.

“Hey, come on!” Rick yelled after him. “I offered you out of the goodness of my heart here!”

“I’m not getting arrested just because your car smells like a rolling felony!” Ford yelled back. 

“You’ve already missed the bus.”

“...Damn it,” Ford reluctantly got into the car. 

Ford insisted on having the windows rolled down while Rick drove. He noticed the car veering a little bit from one side of the lane to the other, but they kept inside the lines and Ford did not feel like arguing about Rick driving drunk. They made it home without incident luckily, even though they passed a police car. At home, Ford exited the car as quickly as possible. 

“Stanley, I’m home,” Ford called as he entered the apartment. 

“Welcome back,” Stan had gotten chinese take out. 

“Hey there, Mr. Peepers,” Rick smirked. 

Stan flushed and looked down. 

“How was school?” Stan mumbled. 

Ford answered “ok” while Rick made a loud groaning noise. Ford glared at Rick, who shrugged and proceed to eat chicken out of a take out box. Stan slapped Rick’s hand away. 

“Wash your hands,” Stan said. “Both of you.”

Ford complied without complaint but Rick rolled his eyes before going to the sink and sudsing up. The boys had dinner in relative silence. They still needed to buy a table to actually eat it. For the while, they were making the half wall separating the kitchenette from the living room into a sort of bar. 

After dinner, Rick went out to his car and brought back boxes of … stuff. 

“What is that?” Ford asked. 

“My rock collection,” Rick said before disappearing into his room. 

It was an obvious lie, but Ford had a feeling the truth was not entirely wholesome. He helped Stan clean up the dishes. 

“Did you stay home all day?” Ford dried while Stan washed. 

“No, I got the take out.”

“Stanley, be serious. The take out is literally just around the corner.”

“I did go out, but I didn’t do anything,” Stan shrugged. “What did you do?”

“Just class, really. I managed to find someone to share books with in Latin. Don’t have to buy my physics book.”

“Nice. Hey, Ford.”

“Hmm?”

“Say you know a guy, he looks like a guy and sounds like  a guy, but he’s not a guy, you know, down there,” Stan unplugged the drain and watch the water flow. “He’s got girl parts.”

“Do you mean a transsexual?” Ford put the last dish away. “What did you do today that you met a transsexual?”

“Nothing,” Stan looked away. “Anyways, how do you, I dunno, deal with that?”

“You just treat him like any other guy. It’s not like you’re having sex with him.”

“I guess,” Stan shrugged. 

Ford arched a brow. “Are you?”

“No!  _ God _ ,” Stan dried his hands off and grabbed a soda from the fridge. 

Ford kept his brow arched. That sounded suspiciously like a denial. Did Stan meet someone at work? It would partly explain why Stan was sticking around Palo Alto so long. 

“Do you like him?” Ford asked. 

“Mmmrrggghh.” Did jacking off to the guy count?

Ford chuckled. “What’s his name?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Ok, fine,” Ford let it go. Stan would spill eventually. “I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever.”


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday afternoon, Stan was trying to figure out how to put the groceries he’d bought that morning into the fridge. There wasn’t much that was perishable but there wasn’t any space for them either. He’d taken out some soda from the door to make space for the eggs, but the vegetables and milk still needed a place to call home. 

The front door slammed behind him. Stan stood up and turned to welcome whoever was home, but they immediately stormed down the hall to slam the door to their room. Minutes later, Rick emerged, topless again, and made a beeline to the fridge. Immediately Rick pulled out a six pack of beer and chugged the first can. He drank comically, the way a cartoon does with their head tilted back and their chest puffed out. Stan realized he was staring at Rick’s breasts again, blushed, and looked down. 

“Put a shirt on, man,” Stan mumbled as he put the potatoes in the space Rick’s six pack had previously occupied. 

“What?” Rick shrugged. “It’s not like you haven’t seen them before.” 

“Yeah, but…” Stan kept his eyes down. He could see the hard on he was getting just from getting a flash of tit. Maybe if he kept kneeling on the floor, Rick wouldn’t notice his emerging semi. 

Thankfully Rick was only interested in the beer. He went into the living room and plopped himself on the couch. He opened the second can of beer and chugged. 

“Tough day today?” Stan shoved the other vegetables into the new space. 

“I fucking hate white bitches, man,” Rick announced. “I told the ho I’d been speaking Spanish from the WOMB and she tells me I still have to do all the work and shit.”

“Couldn’t you, I dunno, switch classes?” Stan stacked some beer packs on top of each other and place the milk in the fridge. 

“Too much work,” Rick opened a third beer. “Besides, I could totally get an easy A. It’s just the bitch teaches at a level for six year olds. It’s an insult to my fucking intelligence. I graduated English high school top of my damn class. Do you have any idea how fucking smart I am in Spanish?”

“Ok,” Stan leaned over the kitchenette’s half wall. His boner was not going away. “So what are you going to do?”

Rick grumbled as he opened the fourth beer. “Wanna learn some Spanish?”

“What?”

“Look, it is literally so fucking simple,” Rick grabbed the textbook and workbook out of his bag and went up the the half wall. “You read one chapter, and then you do the same chapter in the workbook. Kids in  _ kindergarten _ could do this.”

“I, uh,” Stan looked at the pages Rick opened the books to. The letters swam across the page. “I mean, I guess I could.”

“Great,” Rick slapped Stan on the shoulder. “Homework’s due Tuesday. Just gotta do chapter one, okay?”

Stan bit his lip and nodded. He had four days to do it, and if it was as simple as Rick said it was, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Rick leaned back and stretched. 

“Anyways,” he pulled his shoulders back. “I’m gonna go pass out. Have fun in baby Spanish town.”

Stan watched Rick go. He’d been right. Rick’s boobs had a little bounce to them. Stan felt his boner grow the full hardness. Rick had some really nice fucking tits. Stan popped off the button off his pants. He could not believe he was jacking off to Rick again. Still, the thought of putting his dick between Rick’s boobs was just so hot. 

Stan stroked himself fast and hard. He murmured Rick’s name under his breath. He was obsessed with getting titfucked by Rick. Stan tried imaging a girl’s face, but it just had to be Rick. Stan said Rick’s name a little louder. 

“I’m right here, whaddya want?” Rick’s voice said from somewhere to Stan’s left. “Jesus, dude.”

Stan jolted upright and tried to cover himself. “What the hell man, I thought you were asleep!”

“Forgot my beer,” Rick pointedly looked away. “Why are you doing it in the  _ kitchen _ ?”

“I do it everywhere, stop shaming me,” Stan muttered. 

“Gross,” Rick grabbed the rest of his beer pack and went back into his room. 

Stan sighed. Well that was one way to kill a boner. He tucked himself back in and washed his hands. Stan took Rick’s Spanish books off the counter and sulked back to his room. He skimmed through the first chapter of the textbook. Rick was right; the textbook seemed to be aimed at elementary schoolers more than college students. The sentences were short and simple. There was a picture for every vocab word. Key phrases were introduced in the form of four panel comics. Stan thought to himself he probably could do this. 

But when Stan opened the workbook, his heart sank. It was just blocks of text occasionally separated by lines on which Stan had to write down translations of sentences. Stan sighed. He had a hard enough time doing workbook exercises in English. He thought about asking Ford for help, but Ford probably had enough homework on his plate already. Chapter one of the workbook was four pages of translating sentences and one page of matching vocab words. He could do it with enough time, but he was working the next three days. Stan figured he’d better get started.  


	5. Chapter 5

When Rick woke up from his nap, he had that terrible state of mind that was being both drunk and hungover. He thought about skipping class, but he actually liked Mendoza and giving Ford a hard time was always fun. 

“Where the fuck is my binder?” he asked aloud as he reached down and grabbed a beer from his bedside. 

He popped open the can and took a big gulp. Shaking the sleep from his eyes, Rick got up and wobbled to his desk. A small scale and a handheld pill press sat atop the desk. Rick pulled a baggie filled with yellow powder out from the desk drawer and measured one gram out on the scale. When he got the correct amount, he scraped the powder with a plastic card into the pill press. Using a hammer, Rick gave the press a few taps, turned it upside down, tapped it again until a small yellow pill came out. Rick popped the pill in his mouth and got up to find some clothes for leaving the house. 

Mendoza was late to his class again. He wasn’t drunk this time, just hungover. His dad was still drinking. Goddamn, the bastard was a fish. Mendoza held a can of cold soda to his head as he entered the lecture hall. 

“Alright, kids, time to be quiet,” Mendoza announced. “I’ve got quizzes to pass back and a lesson to lecture. Can anyone tell me what Newton’s first law is?”

Ford raised his hand.

“Someone besides that guy,” Mendoza took out the stack of quizzes from last class. “Look at him. He’s the type of nerd who’s gonna know the answer to every question I ask and make the rest of you look bad.”

Some guy in front snickered. Mendoza pointed at him. “What about you then?”

“Uh, an object in motion always stays in motion?”

Mendoza looked at Ford. “Is he right?”

“Um, well,” Ford said. “He’s got the basic idea.”

Mendoza grunted. “Yeah, more or less. The whole law is an object in motion stays in motion unless acted upon by an outside force. The same thing goes for an object at rest. Can anyone tell me what this idea is called?

“Can Sara Alexander tell me?” Mendoza held out a quiz paper.

A girl in the third row raised her hand. “Is it inertia?”

“Yes it is!” Mendoza climbed up the steps to pass Sara back her quiz. “...You should be writing this down, people!”

The class clumsily got out their notebooks and pens. 

“Who can tell me Newton’s second law? Is it Kimberly Baker?”

The girl sitting in the corner of the room closest to the door raised her hand. “When force is acted upon an object, the object experiences acceleration.”

“Good job. Pass this to her,” Mendoza gave her quiz to the student closest to her. 

The door to the hall opened loudly. Rick walked into the class massaging the side of his head. 

“Haha, shit,” Mendoza said to Rick. “You look worse than I do. Tell me Newton’s third law.”

Rick gave Mendoza a dirty look. “Uhhhhhhh, when there’s an action force, there’s a reaction force or something.”

“Or something,” Mendoza flipped through the stack of quizzes. “What’s your name?”

“Rick.”

“Sanchez?” Mendoza pulled out Rick’s quiz. “Try not to be later than me next time.”

Rick stepped up to Mendoza and took his quiz. He made his way across the aisle to sit next to Ford. Ford was going to comment on Rick’s lateness, but said nothing when Rick put his head down on the table. 

Mendoza continued to quiz the class on review physics material while passing out the students’ quizzes. When he was done, he wrote the same information on the classroom’s chalkboard in case some student had not been able to write some information down. 

“Where have you been?” Ford asked when Rick finally put his head up.

Rick shrugged. “Eating breakfast.”

“It’s seven in the evening.”

“Breakfast doesn’t have an allocated time slot.”

“Yes, it does. You eat it in the morning to wake up your digestive system.”

“Listen,” Rick massaged his temples. “Don’t argue with me about when I can and can’t eat eggs and toast.”

Ford narrowed his eyes at Rick. “Are you hungover?”

Rick groaned. “I’m on my way to not be.”

Ford rolled his eyes and turned his attention to Mendoza’s lecture. Mendoza had a habit of checking his watch, he claimed to make sure the class had the full fifteen minutes for their post lecture quiz. He would write a sentence on the board, look at his wrist, and then write another sentence on the board. Still his lecture was very fluid, and he managed to cover a lot of material before the quiz. There were fifteen questions like the last time, but they were still fairly easy. Rick was the first to finish, and Ford shortly after. 

“Want a ride?” Rick asked as he and Ford walked out of the building. 

“Sure,” Ford didn’t really want to be in a car that had Rick behind the wheel, but he wanted to get home quickly and check on Stan. 

They drove with the windows rolled down again. Rick’s mobile brewery had been removed from the back, but the upholstery still reeked of fermentation. At home, Ford found Stan in their room, on his bed, hunched over a Spanish workbook. Stan stuck his tongue out in concentration, making sure each of his letters were neat and legible. He was so engrossed in the workbook, he didn’t notice Ford entering the room. 

“Stanley, you’re going to get a hunch,” Ford said as he took off his jacket. 

“I’m almost done,” Stan muttered. “How was school?”

“Fine,” Ford replied. “I’m glad tomorrow’s Friday, though.”

“I’m not,” Stan chuckled. “Got work in the morning.”

“Yeah, so you better go to bed early tonight. Oh no,” Ford groaned. “I forgot I had to buy supplies for homework.”

“How much is are they? I could give you my card.”

“It’s eighty bucks,” Ford flopped onto his bed.

Stan grimaced. “Yeah, I’m. Pretty sure I don’t have that much. Getting those groceries kinda cleaned me out.” 

Ford sighed. Hopefully the class would be working with just pencil and paper tomorrow. He changed into pajamas and turned off the light. 

“Hey!” Stan complained. 

“Go to bed, Stan,” Ford crawled into bed. “Don’t forget you have to leave at eight fifteen tomorrow.”

Stan grumbled. “Whatever. Night, Ford.”


	6. Chapter 6

The boys’ alarm clock went off at seven forty five. Stan had to get up to turn it off because the alarm was on Ford’s side of the room. Groggy headed, Stan made his way to the bathroom. Rick was inside, brushing his teeth. He grunted a good morning to Stan. 

“Morning,” Stan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Listen, I gotta pee.”

Rick jerked his head towards the toilet. 

“No man, I mean I need some privacy.”

“I’ve already seen your dick,” Rick poured water into a cup. “I think we’re past that point.”

“Dude, come on,” Stan whined. 

“Jeez fine,” Rick brought the cup to his lips and gargled. “Ya big baby.”

Rick spit, wiped his mouth, and left the bathroom. He went into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice from the fridge. 

“Bit early in the day to start drinking, isn’t it?” Ford was eating some toast with jam. 

“Who ever stops?” Rick poured the vodka and orange juice into a tall glass. 

Ford made a noise of irritation and took another bite of is toast. He read the text on Rick’s pajama shirt. 

“Sucks dick for Jesus?” Ford read aloud. 

“Yeah, my  _ abuela _ got it for me for Christmas.”

Ford sighed and finished the rest of his toast. Rick poured himself another glass of orange juice and vodka. Stan joined them in the kitchen, freshly showered and in his work uniform. 

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Rick snickered. 

Stan sneered. It was an ugly uniform. Yellow shirt with red sleeves and a stupid visor cap. At least the pants made his ass look good. 

“I gotta get to work,” Stan shoved a piece of toast in his mouth. “Ford, you can get to school on your own fine, right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Ford washed his dish. 

“I can give him a ride,” Rick offered. 

“No,” Ford said immediately. “I’m taking the bus.”

Stan arched a brow at the both of them, but shrugged it off. He went to his car and drove to work. Work was a pizza restaurant named Stan’s Pizza. It was a small business run by a guy obviously named Stan. Stanley admitted the reason he applied to the place was because he thought it would be funny, and the Stan of Stan’s Pizza shared the same sense of humor and hired Stanley on the spot. They got to be known as Big Stan and Little Stan, even though the younger Stan was taller than the older. When Little Stan arrived at work, the only other employee had already opened the restaurant doors. 

“Hey, Elliot,” Stan greeted the young man. “What’s up?”

“Just woke up,” Elliot replied as he unlocked the cash register. 

Stan snickered. “That’s what you always say.”

Stan went behind the counter and started the ovens. He washed his hands, put on a hair cap, and took out pizza dough from the fridge to knead. They probably weren’t going to get their first customer in a while, but they needed at least cheese and pepperoni slices under the heat lamps. 

“Your brother start school yet?” Elliot opened the second cash register. 

“Yeah, this week,” Stan rolled out the dough. “Seems to be doing good.”

“Yeah?” Elliot leaned over the counter, chin in his hand. “Then I guess you’ll be moving back to New Jersey soon.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Stan poured sauce on the dough and spread it around. “I won’t leave before he can find a job, though.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a good brother,” Elliot yawned. “It’s disgusting.”

Stan chuckled as he sprinkled cheese on top of the pizza sauce. Of course, Elliot wouldn’t understand; he was an only child. When two people were brothers, and especially when they were twin brothers, they would do anything for each other. It’s a bond that non sibling, non twin people simply couldn’t get. Stan put the pizza in the oven and started on the pepperoni. 

About an hour later, pizzas were under heat lamps. A few customers came and order slices, but business was unusually slow for a Friday. Granted it was still morning, and the lunch rush should have been arriving soon. Stan and Elliot were playing cards at the cashiers when the door’s bell rang, signalling a customer had entered the premises. 

“Welcome to Stan’s Pizza,” Elliot stood up and greeted the customer while Stan cleaned up the cards. 

“Hey, I’d like to order a large sausage pizza.”

Elliot groaned. “Rick, please. You could at least use a different line each time.”

“But what’s this?” Rick feigned surprise. “I don’t have any money to pay you with!”

“I’m not killing my paycheck for you,” Elliot grumbled. 

Rick rubbed his nose against Elliot’s. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

“Bitch, me too,” Elliot pulled away and rubbed his nose. 

“You guys know each other?” Stan was so completely confused. 

“We used to go to the same high school,” Elliot replied while Rick said “we used to be part of the same itty bitty titty committee.”

“Rick, oh my god,” Elliot laughed and playfully punched Rick on the shoulder. 

“Till you got them cut off and left me all alone in the committee,” Rick pretended to cry. 

“Wait, you…” Stan looked at Elliot. “You have boobs?”

“Used to. Wanna see?” Elliot grabbed the hem of his shirt. 

“Be careful,” Rick leaned over the counter. “He pops a boner whenever he sees a flash a tit.”

Stan flushed. 

“Might poke your eye out,” Rick snickered. 

“Well, good thing I have protective eye wear,” Elliot tapped his glasses. 

Elliot and Rick burst out laughing. Stan squirmed. 

“So you…” What was the word Ford used. “You’re transsexual?”

“Yes, it’s true,” Rick could do a pretty good impression of Bill Murray. “This man has no dick.”

“Shut up!” Elliot shrieked and slapped Rick. “Neither do you!”

“It’s an epidemic,” Rick grabbed the tip jar from the counter. “Breaking news, live from Palo Alto: Men….without Dicks. Let’s go to Elliot who apparently has a witness on the scene.”

Elliot pressed a finger into his ear and spoke into his fist to imitate a news reporter. “Well, Rick, I’m coming to you live from Stan’s Pizza and I’m here with Jersey boy Little Stan who’s just found out two of his friends… don’t have dicks. What say you, Stan?”

Elliot held his fist to Stan’s face. 

“I, uh,” Stan stammered. “I mean, you guys seem cool with it. How does that whole thing happen?”

“That is a good question,” Elliot turned to Rick. “How  _ does  _ that whole thing happen? Rick?”

“Well, Elliot, when a Mommy and a Daddy love each other very much, they make a baby. Sometimes, when that baby is born, the doctor looks at it and says ‘It’s a girl!’ And sometimes that doctor is right, and that baby girl grows into a woman. Other times, that doctor is wrong. Sure the baby  _ looks _ like a girl, and when it grows up it looks like a woman, but on the inside, it’s really a man. So that baby has to go to  _ doctor _ after  _ doctor _ to try to fix itself so it looks more like a man. ‘Transgenderism’ is what the kids are calling it these days.”

“And the dickless part, Rick?”

“It’s a sad, sad world we live in, Elliot, but in this economy not every man can be afforded a dick. Prices are high, not enough supply to meet demand. There’s just,” Rick clenched his fist and cried a single tear. “Not enough dick to go around.”

“It’s the Great Dickpression, Rick,” Elliot shook his head solemnly. 

“Who can pull us out of this slump, Elliot?” Rick slouched over the counter. “We need some kind of New Deal… A New Dick.”

“Who’s going to be the man who’s gonna be the one to help all these poor trans in need,” Elliot brought his fist to Stan’s face again.  “Will it be Little Stan the Jersey boy,  _ rising _ to the top?”

Stan made a small noise that was part fear and part surprise. He hadn’t understood a thing these boys had said. “I’m… Not giving you my dick.”

Elliot snorted. He wanted to keep the joke running but he was struggling not to burst out laughing. “Heartless,” he wheezed. “And I was really looking forward to that large sausage pizza,” Rick too was struggling to keep a straight face. “I’m Rick Sanchez-”

“And I’m Elliot Tympenol.”

“-and that was Palo Alto News: Men….Without Dicks.”

Rick and Elliot burst into rambunctious laughter. 

“You guys practice that often?” Stan mumbled. 

Stan didn’t get an answer for a while, as Rick and Elliot were still laughing. They immediately quieted when another customer entered the restaurant. Rick moved to the side to let the customer order, eyes still gleaming. Elliot’s service looked phenomenal when he was still smiling over a lengthy dick joke. Stan fetched the two pepperoni slices the customer ordered and handed them back in a box with a customer service smile. When the customer left, Rick and Elliot started laughing again. 

“You should go into news reporting,” Stan said dryly. 

Elliot snorted. “When they make a gay news station, I’ll look into it.”

Stanley rolled his eyes and pulled the cards out again. Elliot took the pack from him and dealt for three people. They played a game called God’s Plan, normally played with the lights off. The rules were that only the dealer knew the rules, he couldn’t tell anybody, and he always had to be smiling. Stan lost, but only because he didn’t know the rules. 

“That’s exactly the point, Stan,” Rick cut a new deal. 

“How am I supposed to win if I don’t know the rules and you guys won’t tell me?” Stan grumbled at his hand. 

“It’s a metaphor. There’s no winning against God,” Elliot flipped three cards over and pulled a card from the deck. “God has plans for you and if you don’t follow them, you lose at life.”

“That’s… a shitty metaphor,” Stan put down an Ace. 

“Well, there’s more where that came from. Fundie Catholic school is like, garbage metaphor city.”

Stan looked at Rick incredulously. “ _ You  _ went to Catholic school?”

“It was an academically acclaimed school, ok?” Rick sneered. “I was on scholarship. I put that place even higher on the fucking map. Blood of the Virgin Girls’ Prep would be nothing without me.”

“You went to an all girls school?” 

“Have you been paying attention? Like, at all?”

Stan blushed and looked back at his hand. He played down a three of hearts. Rick was about to play a five of hearts when Big Stan and his wife entered the shop. 

Big Stan was a little man. His wife was even more petite. They were a sweet, hard working couple. Big Stan had inherited the pizza parlour from his father Stanley who had inherited it from his father Stanley. It was a family that prided itself on joy, and so Stan of Stan’s Pizza was a jovial and easy going man. 

“Hello, boys!” He greeted Elliott and Little Stan. “Started your break early I see!”

Elliot and Stan mumbled some excuses while they shuffled the cards back in their pack. 

Big Stan laughed. “Don’t feel bad! It’s not busy this morning! Me and the little lady will take over from here.” 

Elliot and Stan sheepishly shuffled past the restaurant’s counter as Big Stan walked into the kitchen and his wife took Elliot’s spot behind the cash register. Rick followed Stan and Elliot out the front of the pizza parlor where they would decide which store in the strip mall Stan’s Pizza was located the boys would loiter around. 


	7. Chapter 7

Meanwhile, Ford was waiting in the hallway of his drawing class, only technically loitering. He was too busy cursing himself for not buying the art supplies for homework to worry himself with the semantics. He stopped worrying about that when the strong smell of laundry detergent overpowered him. Tiffany Taylor had arrived. 

“Hello, Ford!” She chirped. “Hey, where’s your portfolio bag?”

Ford wished that she wouldn’t have pointed it out. “I forgot.”

“You  _ forgot _ !?” Ford couldn’t tell if she was horrified or offended. 

“And or I couldn’t afford it.”

Tiffany Taylor gave him a pitiful look he didn’t appreciate. “Do you need a loan?”

“Uh,” Ford wasn’t sure if she was offering use of her art supplies or money. “No, that’s alright. I should have it by next class.”

Tiffany Taylor’s smile was very patronizing, and Ford found himself wanting to leave the conversation. Luckily, something came to change the topic. 

“Hello, Ford,” Bill came by with two boys walking with him. “Taylor.”

“ _ Tiffany _ Taylor,” she corrected. 

Bill rolled his eyes and focused his attention on Ford. “Meet my brothers. Little brother Bill, and littler brother Bill.”

“I’ve met you,” Ford shook the hand of little brother Bill, whom Ford recognized as the Bill from Latin class. “You’re all named Bill?”

“We’re triplets,” littler Bill explained. “And the  _ same age _ .” He gave Bill a dirty look. 

“Doesn’t that get confusing or repetitive?” Ford asked as he shook littler Bill’s hand. 

“Everyone in our family is named Bill,” Bill from Latin class shrugged. “We kinda just know.”

“Do you three have telepathy?” Tiffany Taylor cut in. “Like twin telepathy, but for triplets?”

The Bills gave each other a look. “Something like it,” they all replied. 

Tiffany Taylor stood back, shocked and convinced. “That’s amazing.”

Bill from Latin class looked like he was about to say something mean-spirited, but drawing class Bill cut him off before he could say anything. 

“Shoo,” Bill pushed his brothers away. “I have class. Wait for me at three.”

“You and your perfect attendance,” sneered the Littlest Bill. 

The two little Bill brothers went on their way as the “elder” Bill ushered Ford into the drawing room. Tiffany Taylor takes the seat she took last class. Ford means to take the seat next to it, but Bill pulls him towards a seat next to Bill’s own. Ford isn’t bothered by this. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to smelling Tiffany Taylor all class. 

“Where’s your stuff, Stanford?” Bill asked as he unpacked his portfolio bag.

Ford groaned. “Couldn’t afford it.” Was he going to be asked this by everyone?

“Borrow some of mine,” Bill said as he ripped out a few pieces of newsprint from his paper pad and handed it to Ford. 

Ford thanked Bill for his generosity just as Sanandi entered the class. He waited as the rest of the class filed in and took their seats before beginning his lecture. Ford noticed empty seats on either side of Tiffany Taylor. 

“Today’s lecture,” Sanandi walked up to the class’s white board. “Is circles.”

The class groaned. 

“Hush!’ Sanandi drew a perfect circle on the whiteboard. “You will draw circles, and turn them into spheres. Experiment with different light sources. Example.”

Sanandi drew two more circles and shaded them to depict volume. The class grumbled as they took out paper and pencil to do the sphere exercises. Sanandi walked around the class to help those who needed guidance. 

“This is the worst,” Bill complained under his breath. “Fucking circles.”

“Well, classes always start with the basics,” Ford sketched out some circles. “Circles aren’t so bad.”

“I’m more of a triangle person myself,” Bill said. 

“Well, we might do cones. Those are kind of like triangles.”

“I’d rather do pyramids.”

Ford chuckled as he cast shadows on his circles. Sanandi stopped the class an hour in to collect the circles and to start a new lecture: cubes. The class groaned louder than the last time. Everyone struggled. Cubes were difficult to render convincingly. Sanandi had to give extra instructions on the whiteboard. By the time the class was over, many people in the class were thinking of dropping the class.

“The frustration you are feeling is the feeling of being an artist!” Sanandi called out as the students left this class. 

“He’s not a very good teacher, is he?” Ford whispered to Bill as they left the class. 

“Eh, I’ve seen this method before. As soon as the slackers drop, he’ll be the most amazing teacher. Watch and see,” Bill told Ford. 

Ford doubted that was a very efficient method of teaching, but it was one he hadn’t seen before so he decided he would take Bill’s word for it. Bill’s brothers were waiting for him outside the classroom. Ford said goodbye to the Bills and idly wondered what he was going to do for the rest of the day. Drawing was his only class on Fridays and three o'clock felt a little early to be going home. However, he thought, if he went home now, he could get most of his homework done so he could be free on the weekends. He went home and found the apartment was empty. Well, that’s fine. He could work on his homework in peace. Then he realized he actually have that much homework, which was somewhat disappointing. All that had been assigned were some readings for biology and chemistry and a vocab list for Latin. Ford made himself some tea, changed into some more comfortable clothes, and got out his textbooks to get cozy with for the evening. 

Stan came home around five o’clock, bearing the gift of two pizza pies. Big Stan understood the financial plight and hunger of college students and was a generous enough boss to send Little Stan home with some leftover pizza. This Friday had been a little slow, so there had been a decent amount of leftovers. Ford had a fleeting thought about something his mother said about the Freshman Fifteen as he finished his third slice of pizza and washed it down with a glass of milk. He was on his way to Freshman Fifty at this rate; he noticed his belly was getting a little paunchier after he’d had Stan go and buy something healthy. 

“One of us has to learn how to cook,” he told his brother.

“I can cook pizza,” Stan was on his fifth slice.

“Haha,” Ford pretended to laugh. “I’m serious. We need something to eat that isn’t some iteration of bread.”

“Well, you’re not here a whole bunch,” Stan talked with his mouth full. “Neither is Rick. That mean I gotta do it?”

Ford was about to answer when Rick came home. “Heyooooo!” He greeted the Pines twins.

“Rick. Dinner,” Stan held up the pizza box.

“Oh, no way man, I’d get  _ so _ fat,” Rick imitated a valley girl voice. 

Rick leaned over the half wall the boys were eating at. He pulled a flask out of his backpack and took a swig. “This is all the dinner I need.”

“You’re going to get cirrhosis,” Ford told him.

“Ok, thanks  _ mom _ , I’ll be sure to put myself on a waiting list for a liver transplant,” Rick drawled. “What’s up with you sluts?”

“Ford says one of us gotta learn how to cook,” Stan was on his way past half a pizza pie. 

“I’m glad you’ve risen to the challenge, Stan,” Rick nodded sagely. 

“What! Why me?”

“Cause you’re always home, you’ve got the time.”

“And what exactly are you doing with your time Rick?” Ford asked.

“Oh wow, would you look at my wrist!” Rick looked at his wrist as if he were checking a watch. “Time for me to be in my room.”

Rick got up from the half wall and zipped into his room, letting the door close with a slam.“So I guess I’m on cooking duty,” Stan picked at the cheese stuck to the box. He tossed the empty box in the garbage bin while Ford got up to rinse his cup. 

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll clean if you cook,” Ford made sure to dry the sink when he was done. 

Stan shrugged. “That’s fair. I’ve still got work on the weekends, so I can’t cook then.”

“Well, we’re not going to die if we have pizza three times a week. We might get fat, though.”

“I’ll lose my pretty boy status,” Stan complained. 

“Then you’d better get cooking fast,” Ford joked as he punched Stan in the arm. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a little too gay, even for me.

Monday morning Stan decided to learn how to start cooking. Work had heavy traffic during the weekends, so he’d been too tired to start on Saturday or Sunday. Rick and Ford had a morning biology class together, Ford going unwillingly in Rick’s car, so now Stan had the whole day to himself. After eating a breakfast of leftover pizza, he got into his car to look for a bookstore. He found a discount bookshop a few streets from the Stanford shopping center with a generous selection of cheap cookbooks. The recipes inside called for ingredients Stan couldn’t remember if they had at home. He knew they definitely did not have diced tomatoes or any sort of spices like cumin or anaise. They probably didn’t even have salt or pepper. He’d have to go grocery shopping again. But he also needed to set like, eighty bucks aside for Ford’s supplies. Stan looked at the shelves searching for a book that looked like it would have a lot of different recipes. There was a paperback with a title that caught his eye: Fifty Ways to Eat Cock. Stan snickered as he pulled it off its shelf and flipped through the pages. It had really funny puns and it was only five dollars. He was definitely buying this. He brought it to the counter and paid for it with a straight face, but burst out laughing in the car. He couldn’t wait to show Rick this.  
Back at the apartment, Stan read the cookbook with slightly less skimming. He was mostly looking at the pictures, gauging to see what he could make with what was already in the fridge and what he would need to buy. Measuring spoons, for one thing. Vegetables for another. Stan glanced at a recipe, but got confused about the instructions so he took a closer look. Even reading it closely, his mind still jumbled up the instructions. He got frustrated and pushed the book away. Putting him on cooking duty was a stupid idea.  
The front door pushed open. Rick was home.

  
“Hey man, what cha doing?” Rick was alone.

“Learning how to cook, I guess,” Stan shrugged. “Hey, look at the cookbook I got.”

Rick nodded, but went for the fridge instead. After he pulled out a can of beer and popped it open, he came back to the half wall where Stan was at and picked up the book. He snorted when he read the title, and the beer went everywhere: up his nose, out his nose, out his mouth, sprayed all over the counter. 

“Oh my god,” Rick laughed. “Fucking priceless.”

“Only five bucks,” Stan grinned.

“Shit man, I could tell you how to eat cock for free,” Rick wiped his face. 

Stan couldn’t help blushing, which he tried to hide by covering his mouth when he grinned. 

“So, where’s Ford?" Stan noticed his brother was missing. 

“Said something about a job interview. I’ve got like a six hour gap between classes so I figured I’d come here and get hammered first. By the way, I’ve got a mini fridge in the car. Could you help me bring it up?”

Stan shrugged and followed Rick to his car. It turns out “helping” meant doing the whole thing himself. As Stan carefully cradled the unboxed fridge to his chest, Rick simply held the doors open. Rick wouldn’t hold the door open to his room, so Stan just left the machine in front of it. 

“What? I’m not allowed in your secret headquarters?”

“Nnnnnooooope!” Rick burped.

“What you got in there?”

“Drugs from space,” Rick opened his room door just a crack. 

Stan scoffed and rolled his eyes while Rick dragged the fridge into his room.

“Where’s the box?” Stan asked.

“Like I need picture instructions to plug in a cord,” Rick’s muffled voice came behind the door. “It’s gently used. Got it from the flea market.”

Rick came out of his room wearing a tank top and a pair of those ridiculous basketball shorts from the seventies. “Hey, you got my Spanish homework ready?”

“Uh, well,” Stan was too busy staring at Rick’s legs. “I still got a few more problems left. I figured since it wasn’t due ‘till tomorrow…”

“Helloooooooo!? Think McFly, think!” Rick tapped Stan’s forehead. “I gotta have time to recopy it. Or learn how to copy your handwriting for tests and quizzes and shit.”

“Dude…” Stan rubbed his forehead. “Honestly, you’d be better off doing the homework yourself. It probably has a bunch of mistakes on it. I’m not too good at reading, even in English. So in Spanish, it’s like…”

Stan made a vague gesture with his hands. 

“Well, I guess I’ve got the time,” Rick shrugged. “Bring it to me and we’ll run some tests on your performance.”

Stan hunched his shoulders and went to his room. He felt like he did whenever his father had asked to check his homework. Rick was smart, even smarter in Spanish; he’d probably make fun of Stan for the mistakes. Stan retrieved the Spanish books and brought them to the kitchenette’s half wall, the apartment’s still only usable surface.

“We seriously need to get a table and chairs,” Stan said as he gave the workbook to Rick.

Rick hummed a dismissing acknowledgement as he flipped through Stan’s answers. Stan felt his stomach turn while Rick sipped another beer and checked Stan’s answers. 

“This is probably,” Rick said. “A solid C-.”

“Hey man, I told you it’d have mistakes,” Stan folded his arms and looked away.

“You could have told me you couldn’t do it.”

“I didn’t want you think think I was stupid,” Stan mumbled. 

“Yeah, and this is so convincing.”

Stan bit his lip and groaned. “ Well, now you know: I’m stupid and I can’t do it.”

Stan pushed away from the half wall, but stopped when he felt Rick’s hand on his arm. Stan blushed from the touch. 

“Hey man, a C- minus is still passing. That’s all I need,” Rick explained. 

Stan felt his blush growing stronger, so he turned away. “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

“I, uh, I gotta study recipes,” Stan muttered as he picked up the cookbook and went into his room. 

Rick arched his eyebrow at Stan’s odd behavior but shrugged it off. He finished his beer and got up to inspect the kitchen fridge. Half its contents were his alcohol: beer, vodka, and tequila. He got the tequila and vodka bottles first and moved them to the mini fridge in his room. He thought about leaving the beer, but honestly who else was gonna drink them besides him? Rick took the six packs and stuffed them in his small fridge as well. 

Rick opened a bottle of tequila, poured enough to fill the bottle’s cap, and downed it in one gulp. Then he brought the bottle to his lips and took another gulp. He glanced over to his desk and his little pill making station. Boxes filled with different colored powders sat around the pill press, and some already made pills sat neatly in a tin. Rick ran his fingers through his hair. Making each pill one by one was getting really tedious, just thinking about it made his knuckles ache. But he couldn’t exactly afford pharmaceutical technology, nor did he have a place to put it. Rick groaned and took a yellow pill from the tin to pop in his mouth. He chased it with another swig of tequila, which he knew his liver was going to kill him for, but he didn’t have the hardest working liver in the galaxy for nothing. 

Rick considered just attending class in the tank and shorts. College didn’t have a dress code; his shorts could be as short and his collar as low as he wanted. Also, he was pretty sure he also had the same chemistry class as Ford that evening. It’d be fun to see that poindexter’s reaction. He didn’t miss Stan staring at them. Guy forgot to pick his jaw up off the floor. Rick took of the tank off to put his binder on, but didn’t like the double strap look of the binder with the tank. Looks like he’d have to wear a shirt. He could still wear the shorts. They were powder blue and made his ass look phenomenal. Ford’s eyes would probably pop out of his head.  

Speaking of Ford, he was just finishing up his job interview at the campus student center. The interview was more of a formality than anything; no one else was applying for the position of a filing clerk of a university. Besides, Fiddleford was the one interviewing him, he was sure to get the job. After the interview wrapped up, Ford stayed behind to chat a little more with his new friend. He found out he shared his evening chemistry class with Fiddleford and also a passion for the role playing game Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. Immediately they launched into detailed descriptions of their characters. Ford was a white paladin who had been tricked by an imp into destroying his homeland and had been banished to travel between worlds for thirty ages and had recently returned to dedicate himself to destroying the imp. Fiddleford was a bard whose wife and child had left him after losing his memory in a terrible, unspeakable accident and now he simply wandered the woods looking for clues that might regain him his memory. 

“You guys talking about Dungeons?” A filipino kid approached them. “How do you like the new version so far?”

“Oh my god,” Fiddleford groaned. “Don’t even talk to me about the new version. It doesn’t exist to me.”

“That was a test,” the kid chuckled. “And you passed. You should join my unofficial Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons club.”  
The kid gave Fiddleford a flyer. “We’re kicking off a new campaign Friday at eight. My name’s Harvard-Princeton.”

Neither Ford could help laughing just a little. “Are you sure you’re at the right school?” Fiddleford asked. 

The kid sighed. “My last name is Stanford-Yale, so yeah.”

“Well, his first name’s Stanford,” Fiddleford pointed.

“Thank you, Fiddleford.”

“And he has the balls to laugh at me?” Harvard-Princeton smirked. “At least I didn’t actually go to Harvard.”

“Well, there wasn’t a prestigious Pines University I could ironically attend.”

“I dunno, man. There’s probably one in Oregon or something.”

“Well,” Ford chuckled. “I’ll consider it for my graduate school options.”  
  
Fiddleford glanced at his watch and saw firstly, his shift had ended and secondly, he had better leave for class soon if he wanted to get to class on time. A good friend, he let Ford know the time as well, given they were both going to the same class. They said goodbye to their new friend, and then rushed to the chemistry complex. They entered the class room just as the teacher was picking up her chalk. 

“Hey,” Rick was sitting in the back row, with his legs propped up on the desk. “I got lucky guessing you’d come in through this door.”  
Ford would have said something about statistical probability, but he got distracted. “Did you shave you legs?”

“Yeah, man, wanna feel?” Rick lifted a leg off the desk and pointed it towards Ford. 

Ford glanced around to see if there were any free seats he and Fiddleford could sit at that were not right next to Rick. No such luck, it was a full class. The teacher had just finished writing her name on the board. 

“No, thank you, Rick,” Ford sat down in the desk next to Rick so Fiddleford wouldn’t have to deal with the brunt of him. “This is my friend, Fiddleford. If it’s possible for you to behave yourself for sixty minutes, please do that this next hour. Fiddleford, this is Rick. My brother and I live with him in an apartment midtown.”

“Charmed,” Fiddleford was more confused than charmed, but he was raised to be polite to strangers. 

“I am charming, aren’t I?” Rick grinned. 

Ford rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the teacher. It was going to be a long sixty minutes. 

It was indeed a long sixty minutes. Rick wasn’t even the reason why. The teacher just had an incredibly dry approach to teaching his chemistry. Ford felt disappointed; this was one of his favorite subjects and he already knew he would dread coming to class. He was almost glad Rick was in the class too; he was sure to make it at least somewhat interesting.  
Ford said goodbye to Fiddleford and walked with Rick to Rick’s car. He was beginning to get used the busted up, liquor reeking Pinto. Ford didn’t think he’d ever be comfortable riding with Rick, but he could at least get familiar. At home, Stan had made a simple dinner of noodles and butter: real college cuisine. Dinner was a quiet affair. Rick skipped and Ford had that Monday fatigue. Ford cleaned the dishes, as he said he would, but Stan helped. They chatted a little, made sure the kitchen was clean, and both went to bed. 


	9. Chapter 9

When Stan woke up the next morning, Rick and Ford had already left for school. As Stan went through his morning routine, he thought what he needed to do for the day. Groceries again: he needed to get chicken (cock) and spices and shit. He needed to set aside eighty dollars for Ford’s art supplies as well. His paycheck was due in the mail today, but he doubted it would be enough to cover for both Ford and the fridge. When the hell was Pa’s check coming in?

Well, he wasn’t going to stay in all day waiting for the mail to come in. Stan wasn’t bored enough to let that be the highlight of his day. Well, it would probably be a secondary highlight. The first highlight would be Rick coming home between his classes and most likely walking around the apartment shirtless. Wow, Stan thought himself, he really needed to get out more.

As he drove around the scenic streets of Palo Alto, Stan thought about joining a gym just so he’d have something to do regularly during the week. Or maybe he could find an underground boxing ring. Or an aboveground boxing ring. An underground one would probably be more fun though.

Stan spotted a gym and drove into its parking lot. A sign outside its entrance promoted some sort of “two for twenty” deal. Stan rubbed his hands together; he could rope Ford into this. Failing that, maybe he’d get Rick to do it. Speaking of Rick, he was due back at the apartment soon. Stan quickly drove back home.

Rick was already home and shirtless when Stan got back.

“Oh hey,” Rick was setting up a television set. “You went outside for once.”

“Hey,” Stan panted (he’d run up the stairs when he saw Rick’s car in the garage). “What’re you- whatcha doing?”

“I got a surprise for us,” Rick fiddled with a plastic box. “The surprise is we’re pirating cable.”

Rick stood up and pressed the power button on the tv’s remote. Stan had a nice side view of Rick’s boobs. Score, Stan thought. He wasn’t even getting boner this time. This was going great.

“Like what you see?” Rick noticed Stan was smiling.

“Huh? Oh yeah. This show is great,” Stan shifted his gaze to the tv.

Rick snorted. “Yeah, I bet.”

Rick turned his back to Stan and bent over slowly. Or maybe he was bending over at a normal pace and it just seemed slow to Stan. Either way, Stan got a nice long look at Rick’s butt. There was that boner now. Stan was lucky he was wearing loose fitting jeans. Maybe if he pretended nothing was going on, Rick wouldn’t notice. Rick snapped up with a cardboard box in his hands and Stan quickly darted his eyes somewhere else.

“So, uh, flea market find?” Stan coughed.

“Yeah, mostly. Where’d you go off to today?” Rick turned the box over and sat on it.

“Found a gym,” Stan said. “Wanna join with me?”

“You saying I’m fat?”

Stan was a little startled by that. Rick’s voice was sharper than Stan had ever thought it could be. Had he accidentally struck a nerve?

Rick snickered. “I’m just messing with you.  So what’s the deal?”

“Place by Trays Rays-”

“Tres Reyes,” Rick corrected Stan’s pronunciation.

“They’re having a couples’ special.”

“So you want me to join as your girlfriend or your boyfriend?”

“Uh,” Rick was always catching Stan off guard. “I think you can just sign up as friends or something.”

Rick snickered again. “You are really easy to mess with, Pines. Alright, I’ll sign up with you tomorrow. I can skip…. whatever it is I have on Wednesdays.”

Rick got up from his cardboard seat and took the box into his room with him. He emerged fully dressed and flat chested. Stan tried to hide his disappointment. He wanted to ask how Rick got it like that, but Rick was already halfway out the door.

“You’re cooking tonight, right?”

Stan nodded.

“Great. Can’t wait to eat your cock.”

Stan went completely red as Rick slammed the door behind him. Stan figured out he was probably talking about chicken, but the wording. He was letting himself get messed with again. Speaking of chicken (cock), he needed to go out to get groceries. Stan took care of his boner and went out to a Safeway.

Rick got to his physics class before Mendoza did, but not before Ford. Ford was sitting closer to the board than Rick would have liked. Well, Mendoza seemed a chill enough teacher. Just as Rick was sliding into the chair next to Ford, Mendoza entered the room. He was early, which was unexpected. Half the class hadn’t shown up yet. He also looked forlorn.

“What’s up, Teach?” Rick called out to him. “You look like you’ve got bad news for us.”

“Yeah,” Mendoza scratched the back of his neck. “I’ll tell you when the rest of the class gets here.”

The half of the class present murmured. Some of them discussed the possibility that someone had ratted their teacher out. The tension in the room grew. Students that trickled in saw their teacher already in class, confusedly looked at the clock, saw they were not late, noted the mood of the room, and uncomfortably took their seats.

“I have distressing news,” Mendoza announced when the class filled.

“Are you not going to be our teacher anymore?” a girl in the back rows asked.

“What? No.”

The class let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Does that really constitute as bad news to you guys?” Mendoza put his hands over his heart. “Y’all’re so sweet. But no, the bad news is that I have to assign two writing assignments. You know, a research paper. ”

The class groaned

“Six to ten pages each, worth sixty percent of your final grade.”

The class groaned louder.

“I know, I don’t want to either,” Mendoza sighed. “So here’s what I’m gonna do: you can turn in anything to me as long it’s typed and six to ten pages long. I mean anything: an essay from another class, some fanfiction, a list of really cool facts about dogs, whatever.”

The class was thrilled.

“When is the assignment due?” Ford asked.

“Huh? Oh, you’re probably gonna try to turn in an actual research paper to me, aren’t you?”

Ford didn’t answer that.

“I want it by next class, so I can have the weekend to grade it.”

Ford was stunned. That was not nearly enough time to write a proper research paper.

“Let’s see, what else? I want you guys to have fun with this, but gotta have some ground rules. No group work. I don’t want to see multiple names on the same paper, and I don’t want to see copies of each other's papers. If you’re going to give me dog facts, and I am really looking forward to dog facts, don’t give me facts like ‘dogs have four legs’. Not only is it an uncool fact, it’s not a fact at all. I’ve seen three legged and two legged dogs covering my aunt as a veterinarian.

“And if you decide to give me a real research paper,” Mendoza pointed at Ford and Rick. “It had better be the best damn paper I’ve ever read. I want these papers to make me consider signing off checks for research grants.”

“Shit. He’s on to me,” Rick smirked.

Meanwhile, Ford’s blood had gone cold. He never wanted to turn in bullshit to a teacher, but to do a research paper in just one day was a feat nearly impossible. He was panicking a little. Maybe he’s have to turn something else. A list of really cool physics facts, perhaps. Mendoza had already started to lecture, so he’d have to think over his options later.

Ford’s face was still ashen when class ended. As he and Rick drove home, Ford’s mind raced for a topic, any topic, he could completely research within a day and type and print a six to ten page essay for. He distractedly ate the dinner Stan made, chicken breast and lemon rice. Ford vaguely registered that the apartment was noisy, even though all three of the boys had enough manners not to talk with their mouths full. Finally, he realized that there was a tv on, playing some sort of Spanish sitcom. Wait a minute, when did they get a television? Or cable for that matter?

Ford stared at the television, not paying to what was actually being shown on the screen. Television was invented using physics. Something about pushing electrons around, he couldn’t remember the exact details. They only went over it briefly senior year. But he could possibly write his research paper about how electromagnetism works. And failing that, a list of cool tv shows. He would have to get up early so he could spend time in the library before class finding books. Yes, he could do this. One day to write a research paper. No problem at all.

It was totally a problem. Ford had slept later than he had wanted to, which gave him about thirty of actual time in the library to check out books. He hadn’t discriminated very much; he had just a canvas bag he’d gotten from the librarian at the front desk and every research book on the workings of television he could find. He was almost late to his biology class. Ford hardly even noticed Rick was absent. Honestly, Ford had considered skipping himself but the teacher marked attendance and participation points. After Ford answered the required two questions, he focused on skimming his library books to jot down notes and ear the pages that looked like they would have useful passages. After class let out, Ford went directly to the art complex and just sat down in the hallway reading his books.

Hardly more than a week in and he’d already managed to be a harried student cramming in a research essay. Ford sarcastically wondered if he’d get hooked on Ritalin before the month was out. All the information was very interesting, but he wasn’t sure if he could make a research paper out if this. A scientifically sketchy article about how television rots the brain, perhaps, but an actual research paper would be tricky without any time allowed to have any actual hands on research. Ford thought about how he really disliked Mendoza for this, and made a mental note to make a comment about how he conducted assignments when the time for teacher evaluations came. 

The tapping of a hard plastic heel against the fake stone plastic tile of the hallway turned Ford’s attention from the books. Bill and his brothers were approaching the classroom. Was it time for class already?

“Hey there,” Bill said, the one in the drawing class with him. “Still no art supplies?”

Ford closed his eyes and covered his mouth to keep from cursing. He’d forgotten, again. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill smirked. “I’ll loan you mine again.”

“You’re too kind,” Ford blushed. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Bill said. His brothers snickered. 

Bill shooed his brothers away and helped Ford to his feet. They walked together into Sanandi’s classroom, where the teacher had set up an atrocious still life of uncanny mannequins and toys that had been rescued from the possession of some sadistic teenagers. 

“Observation and composition,” Sanandi announces when everyone is seated. “Look at it and make it look good.”

That was the end of their lecture. The class muttered confusedly as they got their drawing supplies out and tried to pick out a spot where they didn’t have to make eye contact with a nude, dismembered mannequin or a barbie with a shark’s head and robot arm. Ford was stuck looking at a pile of porcelain dolls that would have made Chucky uncomfortable. 

“I hate this class,” Ford muttered as he drew circles for the base of the doll’s head. 


	10. They finally kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Stan finally make out.

Meanwhile, Rick was skipping class. He didn’t even know what class it was. He had gone the first session and hadn’t paid any attention to it at all, and he did the same at the second lecture. It might have been philosophy, in which case, he already didn’t care. Instead he was at the gym, which he also didn’t care for, waiting in the manager’s office with Stan in surprisingly comfortable seats. Evidently, the promotion Stan had seen had been specific to couples, so Stan and Rick decided to bluff it. Now the manager was looking over their paperwork. 

“You know there are a lot of guys trying to pass themselves off as gay to get a cheaper membership,” said Mr. Manager (so reads his desk name plate).

“You don’t think we’re gay?” Stan asked.

“I think  _ he’s  _ gay,” Mr. Manager looked pointedly at Rick, whose pink shirt read “EAT ASS LIKE YOU MEAN IT” in a bold, black text. “Congrats on being so loud and proud. You, not so much.” Mr. Manager turned his attention back to Stan.

“You want us to prove it to you?” Rick snickered. 

“Yeah, actually.”

Well, this was weird. Stan had to bluff being straight before, but no one’s ever wanted him to prove he’s gay before. Before Stan could respond to that, Rick leaned over and kissed Stan. Stan’s initial shock faded quickly when he realized looking too surprised would dampen the legitimacy of his and Rick’s gay coupleness. But as soon as he started to kiss back, Rick pulled away. He looked smug, but Mr. Manager looked unconvinced. 

“Any two bros can kiss,” Manager’s voice came out a little flustered. 

“Could any two bros tongue?” Rick asked as he got out of his chair and settled himself into Stan’s lap.

“Actually I just have this questionnaire-”

But Rick wasn’t listening. He was busy, straddling Stan and giving him mouth to mouth. Stan was prepared this time and reciprocated enthusiastically. Also, he was into it. Like, really into it. Making out with Rick was basically a dream come true, even if these weren’t the circumstances he’d been dreaming about. 

Rick snuck a quick peek at Mr. Manager to see if he needed more convincing. The man was made of steel. Rick pulled away to catch some breath and then went about planting kisses across Stan’s neck, up his jaw and settling at Stan’s ear to nip at the lobe. He trusted Stan could keep up and see they needed to up their make out game. 

Stan didn’t know what to do with his face now that Rick wasn’t playing tonsil hockey with him. He didn’t want to see how the manager was reacting, so he leaned into Rick’s shoulder and decided he needed to do something with his hands. Tentatively, he put them on Rick’s hips, and when Rick didn’t shake them off, trailed them upwards.

Wrong way, bucko, Rick thought as he felt Stan’s hands under his shirt. The guy was obsessed with tits. Well, Rick couldn't be mad at him for wanting to cop a feel, but Rick didn’t want Stan messing around in his binder. He pulled Stan’s hands out of his shirt and placed them on his thighs. Go for the ass, Rick told Stan with a little wiggle of his butt. 

Well, Stan definitely couldn’t pretend he didn’t have a boner  _ now _ , now that Rick had basically just grinded against it. He gently squeezed Rick’s thighs and thought about how ugly Rick’s shorts were. They were green and fuzzy and kinda reminded Stan of tennis balls. Stan trailed his hands past Rick’s thighs. This was it. He was going for the butt. Rick let out a soft moan when Stan squeezed, and Stan couldn’t help but shudder. Rick’s ass was nice and squeezable, and his shorts were tight. They even had a little inseam on the cheeks, white like….like a fucking goddamn tennis ball. Stan snorted, which turned into a moan when Rick rutted against his lap again.

“Hey, Derek there are those kids doing stunts on the treadmills agai-”

Rick, Stan, and Derek Manager all looked up to see who had just entered the office. Derek’s face was redder than a beet, and his knuckles were going white from his balled fists pressed into the surface of his desk. The person who had just come in, the assitant manager, surveyed the scene and understood some really weird shit was going on.

“What’s….going on here?”

Rick pointed at Derek. “He wanted us to do this.”

The assistant manager’s face colored a red that rivalled Derek’s. “Did he really?”

“He wanted us to prove we were gay,” Stan added.

“Did he really.” The assistant manager’s voice came out barely a whisper.

Both the manager and his assistant looked at each other with red faces and tight lips. They held a silent argument with their eyes. 

Goddamn it, Derek you’re going to get us a lawsuit, the assistant manager glared.

Listen, I didn’t ask them to do  _ that _ , Derek glared back.

The assistant manager turned back to Stan and Rick. “Would you excuse us for a moment?” He said, as he pulled the manager out of the office by the ear. 

They left with the door slamming behind them. Rick got off Stan’s lap and returned back to his seat. Stan sat perfectly still as Rick pulled away, breathing a little hard and processing everything that had just happened.

“Goddamn, dude,” Stan said after a few moments of silence between them. Rick only smirked. 

The assistant manager returned, alone. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time. We will be processing your applications shortly, and will be incredibly grateful if any mention of this incident did not leave this room.” He picked up the papers Derek left on his desk and left as quickly as he came.

Minutes passed and it became clear that neither manager was coming back. Rick and Stan got out of their seats and went back to the car. Stan sat in the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition, but he didn’t start the car. 

“Goddamn, dude,” he repeated. 

Rick laughed. “What, did you think I was straight?”

Stan answered that with a lot of muttering, not meeting Rick’s eyes, and starting the car to get out of the gym’s parking lot.  Ford wasn’t there when they got home. He had left a note on the fridge that he was at the library, requesting Stan to come pick Ford up when it closed. So, at eight that evening, Stan was waiting in front of the library’s doors. Ford got into Stan’s car dissatisfied with the work he had been able to get done. He’d gotten a lot of research done, but the paper he’d written read more like an information pamphlet than a research paper. Well, it was ten pages and due tomorrow, so it would have to do. Ford decided to revise it if he had any time tomorrow and submit a retyped version to Mendoza, the bastard. 

“Hey, so,” Stan asked on the drive home. “What do you think of Rick?”

“I think he’s an egomaniac with a drinking problem,” Ford replied instantaneously. 

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “But after that? Do you think he’s cool?”

“Why would I?” Ford grumbled. It would be thirty years before he thought Rick was “cool”. 

“Well, we live with him. We should be cool with him. It’d be a problem if we weren’t, right?”

“What are you talking about? Is he bothering you?”

“No! No. Just putting it out there, I guess,” Stan drove in the apartment’s parking garage. 

“He’s tolerable,” Ford said as Stan cut the engine. 

Another pause. “Alright.” Stan got out of the car. 

Now what was that all about? Ford wondered as he followed Stan out of the car and to the apartment. Rick himself was nowhere to be seen, probably holed up in his room. Ford entertained the thought that Rick too might be rushing to finish his paper. Fat chance. Rick was probably taking the easy way out. 

Stan had made a simple dinner, rice and chicken, but Ford found himself not hungry. Mostly, he was just tired. As he unrobed for bed, he heard a small crunch when he tossed his sweater vest onto the floor. Then he remembered that Bill had signed him a check after class. 

“A small loan,” Bill had said when he placed it in the pocket of Ford’s sweater vest.

Ford had thanked Bill for it, but hadn’t looked at it. He had been focused on getting to his next class, and then to the library to finish his paper. Now, he was remembering that Bill had given him a gift and he should show proper gratitude the next time Ford saw Bill. He took the folded piece of paper out of the sweater vest’s pocket and examined it. 

The check was one million dollars. 

Ford wanted to think it was a mistake. But you don’t write out a million dollar check by mistake. Is this what a “small loan” was to Bill? Ford bit his lip. This would be difficult to pay off. He couldn’t accept this. But at the same time, this could pay the rest of his school costs. What a dilemma. He didn’t want to deal with it. Ford put the check back in his sweater and told himself he’d sleep on it and figure it out in the morning. 

End Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A small loan of a million dollars" - Donald Trump


	11. Chapter 11

There was a problem with the AC units in the science building. Mr. Mendoza’s class was freezing. Mendoza was late again, and the class was shivering while they waited for him. Ford waited and shivered along. He had his paper in front of him, a ten page list of really cool facts. It was formatted to look like a research paper, and it had a bibliography, but it was honestly just a really long list of facts. Ford was mad at himself about it, but he was more upset with Mendoza for giving such a ludicrously short amount of time. It was Ford’s own fault for not taking the easy way out, but he believed in the merit of hard work too much to give himself a break every once in a while. Rick sat next to Ford, chewing gum and completely unfazed by the cold. Ford found this surprising, given Rick was in shorts and half a t shirt.  

“Aren’t you cold, Rick?” Ford asked.

“A ho never gets cold,” Rick recited the text on his half shirt. 

Ford decided this was not a conversational direction worth taking. “Did you do your report?”

“Yeah got it right here,” Rick pulled out a stack of paper out of his backpack. 

Ford looked it over. “It’s in Spanish.”

“I’m smarter in Spanish,” Rick answered. 

Ford didn’t even know how to respond. “Well, he didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Ford gave Rick back his report and looked at the clock. So far Mendoza was fourteen minutes late. Two more minutes and the class would be allowed to leave. Mendoza seemed popular among the students though. Ford wondered if anyone would actually leave. He didn’t have to wonder, however, because Mendoza arrived at the fifteen minute, thirty second mark.

“Woof!” Mendoza exclaimed. “It’s like walking into a meat locker.”

The class chattered excitedly at Mendoza’s appearance. 

“Thank you, thank you. I’m excited to see you guys too. I hope I get to read  _ a lot _ of really cool facts this weekend,” Mendoza rubbed his hands together. “Pass your papers to the left so I can climb up all those terrace step things and collect them. Gotta get my cardio in.”

Mendoza made a great show of collecting papers. He took exaggerated steps up the amphitheater and held the papers as if carrying the olympic torch. Most of the class clapped and cheered him on. Ford abstained from encouraging the antics. 

“Ok!” Mendoza said after putting the papers in his briefcase. “Now that we’ve wasted- wow that didn’t waste any time at all.”

Only twenty minutes of official class time had passed. 

“Well, it’s twenty degrees too cold to be teaching in here,” Mendoza told his students. “Who wants to have class outside?”

The class cheered. Mendoza led the class out to an open plaza near an outdoor amphitheater. The sun had gone down, but the air was still a bit balmy. Most students chose to lay down on the warm grass. 

“I hope you guys can take notes like that, cause you still have a quiz at the end of class,” Mendoza warned before launching into his lecture. 

 

Stan’s carbonara sauce was burning. 

“Nooooooo,” he moaned as he took the pot off the stove. 

The only other pot Stan had was being used to boil pasta. He put the pot in the sink and took out some soup bowls to salvage some of the sauce. The bowls were too shallow, so the sauce splashed up when Stan poured the sauce in. Hot carbonara sauce splashed across Stan’s hand. Stan swore as he dropped the pot, and then Stan swore louder when he realized he’d dropped the pot. The pot bounced up slightly and sauce flew everywhere, including on Stan. Stan swore again as the scalding sauce landed on him and nearly everything in the kitchen. Stan spent a minute breathing in and out, trying not to scream in pain. The sauce cooled quickly enough so that Stan wasn’t too uncomfortable. He assessed the situation. The kitchen looked like Chernobyl. Stan himself looked like he had killed a man. His pasta was still boiling. And if he didn’t do something about that either, the spaghetti would burn too. Stan grabbed the pot, stupidly without mitts. At least he didn’t pull the pot with him when he pulled back. Stan came back to the pot with a thick kitchen towel and managed to get the pasta strained without incident. As he was straining the pasta, the oven timer went off. It’s beeping told Stan the chicken he was roasting was ready to be taken out.

“Ugh, leave me alone,” Stan muttered as he let go of the pasta pot.

The towel wasn’t thick enough to protect Stan from the heat radiating from the metal pan Stan was roasting the chicken on. Instinctively, Stan tried to hold the pan with only his palms, but he suffered for it. His grip was compromised, so he couldn’t keep the pan level. The pan juices from the chicken spilled and Stan slipped on them. He fell forward into the kitchen counter. 

“Jesus,” Stan groaned as he propped himself up. At least the chicken hadn’t gone flying. 

The apartment’s front door opened. Rick and Ford were home.

“You guys are home early,” Stan panted.

“Lecture finished early,” Ford explained. “What happened?”

“Christ on sale,” Rick chuckled. “Did you slaughter the chicken yourself?”

Stan scoffed. “Yeah man. Slippery bastard wouldn’t stop running after I caught his head off.”

That earned a loud laugh from Rick. Stan felt his chest tighten and his face warm. Maybe he could pass off the blush on his face as sauce. 

“I’m gonna wash off,” Stan said as he took his apron off. 

A cold shower and fresh clothes later, Stan came back into the kitchen to find Ford eating alone. Stan hid his disappointment. Rick hadn’t eaten his food last time either. 

“Did Rick go to his room?” Stan asked as he made a dish for himself.

“Yeah,” Ford tore into a chicken leg. “Said something about wanting to lose three pounds. But at the same time, he took out a bottle of vodka filled with gummy bears out of the fridge.”

“Huh,” Stan twirled his fork in his pasta. “So….anything happening?”

Ford thought about telling Stan about the check. But he hadn’t accepted it yet, and Ford felt Stan would insist on cashing it in. “No, not really. You?”

“I guess not,” Stan said. He and Rick hadn’t talked at all about the gym incident. It’s not like Stan thought they would be together forever because of it, but some follow up would have been nice. 

“Not even what happened here?” Ford gestured around the kitchen. “I’m not cleaning this up by myself.”

Stan groaned. “Ugh. Just. Not a good day today, I guess. I’ll help clean it up, don’t worry.”

It took about half an hour to clean up the kitchen. The sauce had gotten everywhere; it was a wonder how Stan got any to serve in a bowl. The boys were properly exhausted from getting the kitchen relatively spotless so they didn’t dilly dally going to bed. 

Ford still didn’t know what to do with the check Bill gave him in the morning. He was supposed to sleep on it,  but he had slept too soundly. True, he really needed the money, but it was unrealistic for him he could repay that loan within a reasonable time. Did Bill intend on charging interest? The more Ford thought about it, the more he found returning the check was the better option. Ford needed money, but not that much. Oh damn, he needed art supplies. He could have used the money for that. He  _ should _ have: that’s what the check had been  _ for _ . But Ford didn’t need  _ a million dollars _ worth of art supplies. He was really in a pickle now. 

“Stan, do you have eighty dollars on you?” Ford didn’t even say good morning at breakfast. 

“Uh,” Stan didn’t.

“I do,” Rick offered.

Ford frowned. He could probably pay back an eighty dollar loan, but he didn’t feel entirely comfortable borrowing money from Rick. However, he felt even more uncomfortable being a million dollars in debt to a relative stranger. But it was Rick, so that meant the money came from whatever profits came from his unlicensed backseat distillery. The money from Bill also bore the possibility of being illegal. After all, what kind of college student has just a million dollars to loan and considers it “small”? Eighty dollars of dirty money was probably better than a million of it.

“Do you have it on you now?” Ford asked. 

Rick reached into his shirt and pulled out four twenty dollar bills. Ford stared at Rick’s hand. Where did Rick keep that? Did he have pockets on the inside of his shirt? Well, with a shirt that said “I have mixed drinks about feelings” anything was possible. 

“I changed my mind.” Ford would take his chances with Bill. He put on his shoes, grabbed his bag, and left the apartment without another word.

“Now what was that all about?” Stan turned to Rick. “Are you giving Ford a hard time?”

“Not nearly a hard time as I’ve been giving you,” Rick sipped his coffee. “Want some money?”

Stan hesitated. Of course he wanted money, but what was the catch?

“Come on,” Rick goaded. “It’s touched my tit.”

Stan snatched the money out of Rick’s hand, grumbling and blushing. He didn’t make eye contact with Rick as he shoved the cash in his pocket, but could feel Rick looking at him with a shit eating grin. Stan mumbled he was going to work and headed out the door. He was still red faced when he arrived at Stan’s Pizza. 

“You look like a tomato,” Elliot greeted him. “Careful we don’t put you in the blender and use you as sauce.”

“Leave me alone,” Stan whined. “You’re almost as bad as Rick.”

Elliot scoffed. “I could  _ never _ be as bad as Rick.”

Stan took stock of his coworker. “Yeah, probably not. Why’re we standing outside the place?”

“Forgot my key and can’t get in,” Elliot walked to the quick mart next door. “Called Big Stan about it though, so I’m getting a beer.”

Stan followed Elliot into the mart. It might be a little early for a beer, but it was never too early for Arizona tea and toffee peanuts. After Stan and Elliot got their respective goods, they sat on the curb in front of Stan’s Pizza waiting for their boss. 

“You still gonna work here for a while?” Elliot popped open the pull tab on his beer. 

“Yeah,” Stan squeezed the bottom of the bag of toffee peanuts, forcing the top seal to split open. “Ford hasn’t got a job yet, but I might stay while after even when he does.”

“Why? You found someone you like?”

Stan’s face returned to looking like a tomato. 

“Oooooooh,” Elliot giggled. “Who is it?”

“If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone.” 

“Psshh, I only have, like, two friends,” Elliot raised his beer can to his lips. “Odds are I don’t even know them.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Rick. So you do.”

Normally, a spit take would be the scenario here, but Elliot had paid about six bucks for this beer, so he swallowed. 

“Good luck,” Elliot coughed his beer down. “He’s behind, like, seven proxies.” 

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Elliot snickered. “But seriously? You like Rick?”

“You don’t think I should?” Stan furrowed his brow. 

“Well, I’ve fucked the guy, so telling you not to go for it is gonna make me a hypocrite,” Elliot rubbed his chin. “But you’re nice… and sweet. And Rick is neither of those things. Like, the exact opposite.”

“He’s not that bad.” After all, Rick had just given Stan eighty bucks with no catch. 

“Well, he’s not a monster. He’s just not a Hallmark card.”

Stan spit out his tea a little bit. “You think  _ I’m _ a Hallmark card?”

“Yeah, pretty much. You drove cross country with your brother and got a job to support him while he makes something of himself. I should call Lifetime with the rights to that movie right now.”

Stan opened his mouth to protest, but Elliot had him there. Maybe he really was a sap. 

“So you think Rick and I wouldn’t work out?” 

“...you might. He’s really rough around the edges and you’re soft. Like, really soft.”

“I’m not soft!” Stan protested. 

“You’re like butter, dude,” Elliot put his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “But if you give Rick time, he softens up too. But that’s a lot of time, and probably a lot of hurt feelings.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t have feelings, so I wouldn’t know,” Elliot proudly placed a hand on his chest. “But you look like you’re made of feelings, so you gotta watch out. And if you  _ really _ like him, it’ll be worth it.” 

Stan was quiet as he thought about what Elliot had just told him. So, Rick was the bad boy type; that was obvious. But in Stan’s experience with bad boys, they were actually really nice once you got to know them and got past the serrated exterior. There was no reason to think Rick wouldn’t be the same. As Big Stan pulled into the parking lot with keys to open his business, Little Stan decided maybe he would go for it. 


	12. Chapter 12

Ford felt like an idiot. He’d gone to the bank, opened an account, deposited Bill’s check, bought his art supplies, and now he was kicking himself. He was now one million dollars in debt to a stranger. Maybe he could return most of the money. He only used the amount he needed for the supplies, so perhaps technically he was only eighty six dollars in debt. Ford anxiously jiggled his foot. What was he going to tell Bill? Well, he was going to have to figure out soon because he could  _ hear _ Bill coming down the hall. It sounded like his brothers were with him as well. 

“Stanford,” the eldest Bill smiled. The other Bills snickered behind him. 

“Hello, Bill,” Stanford brushed the hair out of his eyes. “I, uh, I should thank you for your, um, generous offer.”

Bill’s face lit up. “Ah, so you’ve taken me up on it.”

“Well,” Ford winced. “I- some of it. But I want to return the rest of it.”

Bill’s face fell. 

“It’s not that I’m not thankful!” Ford stammered. “It’s just. A million dollars is too much! I could never back back that amount.”

“Too much? Pay me back?” Bill sounded genuinely confused. 

“Well, typically, you pay back a loan,” now Ford was confused. “And there’s no way I can get a million dollars to give back to you.”

Bill hummed, taking in what Ford had told him. Ford shifted the weight on his feet. Did Bill not comprehend the properties of loan lending? He might have not. Who just loans a million dollars?

“Well, if you’re worried about paying me back, you won’t have to do it with money,” Bill said. “Just time.”

“Time?” Ford asked as if he had never heard the concept of it before. 

“Yes. As they say, time is money. And I want a million dollars worth of your time.”

Ford gaped. The two younger Bills, who had been quiet up until now, began snickering. 

“Do you mean?” Ford thought the concept was so preposterous he didn’t wanna say it out loud. “Do you mean like a date?”

The young Bills could barely stifle their laughter. 

“Oh hush up, you two,” their brother chastised. “You guys are ruining the scene. But yes a date.”

Ford blushed. He never thought he’d be getting asked out by the second week of school. Or, you know, by another man. He’d never been on a date before, and he’d heard about college being the place to experiment and try new things. 

“It’s just one date, right?” What the hell. A date with Bill couldn’t be too awful. 

“Unless you decide you want more.” Bill winked. 

Ford chuckled nervously. One singular date seemed a little disproportionate as repayment for one million dollars, but if it was a way out of financial debt Ford would take it. 

“Okay,” Ford nodded. “One date.”

Bill smiled and stuck out his hand. Ford took it tentatively. Bill’s grim was firm, almost crushing. Ford never shook hands with someone to set a date before, but there was a first time for everything in college he supposed.


	13. Chapter 13

When Stan got off work on Saturday, he did not go back home. Instead, he drove by the dance bar he had visited a couple weeks back. He had remembered they were hosting a dance contest and decided to check out the scene. He wasn’t planning on doing any dancing himself, but he figured he could learn more about the dancing business by asking around. He’d dressed to make himself a little more adult: leather jacket, white shirt, black jeans, and gelled back hair. Stan had changed in the bathroom after his shift and Elliot had laughed at him when he came out. 

“You goin to a costume party, Zuko?” Elliot snickered. 

Stan laughed along, secretly delighted to be compared to John Travolta’s character in iconic 70’s movie  _ Grease _ . It sounded silly, but it boosted his confidence for this sneaking in he was about to do. The security was higher that night, but the bouncer was different than the one before. He too did not know what an authentic Jersey ID looked like. Stan, or “Samford Yelnats”, got into the dance bar without too much fuss. The stage was more brightly lit and a catwalk had been attached. Stan took a look around the room, saw all the security men that were twice his size, and decided it would be best to keep his baby face out of the light. He found a booth tucked away in a corner, clearly meant for more private dances. 

The dance contest was already underway. Both men and women danced across the stage and down the catwalk. Some of them seemed to be staff dancers. Stan couldn’t recognize any faces, but the way they danced and walked seemed familiar to some dancers Stan vaguely remembered from the last time he was there. Then there was one dancer who Stan knew was familiar.

“Holy shit,” Stan whispered as he leaned forward over his table to get a better view of the stage. 

Rick Sanchez walked out onto the stage. Yes, Rick Sanchez. He was wearing a white halter top made of lace with a matching white denim mini jacket. Patched to the back of the jacket was a square of fabric that had the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe sewn into it in sequins. To go with it, he was wearing a white leather miniskirt, white fishnet leggings, and white heeled combat boots. Madonna’s  _ Like A Virgin _ was playing. Nearly everyone in the bar stopped whatever they were doing to watch Rick. He was wearing red lipstick and blue eyeshadow and had done a really good job of clipping a blonde wig onto his head. If it weren’t for Ricks boobs, Stan would have thought this was just a random girl having a wild night out. But Stan knew those titties anywhere. That was Rick Sanchez in a $200 lace front dancing to Madonna. 

Rick only had two minutes to dance, but what an incredible two minutes it was. Rick knew a lot of tricks Stan didn’t know could even be done with a pole. By the time Rick walked offstage, Stan was regretting wearing such tight jeans. His boner was threatening to pop the button  _ and  _ break the zipper. While he adjusted himself, he scanned the bar floor to see if there were bathrooms or something where he could jack off. 

“Hey, Greased Lightning, is that a wrench in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Stan jumped at Rick’s voice. 

Rick snorted. “I guess you’re happy.”

“No, uh,” Stan covered his lap with his hands. “That’s, uh, that’s totally a wrench.”

Rick rolled his eyes and tossed his hair. Stan swore he did it in slow motion.

“Shouldn’t you be backstage or something?” Stan tried to inch away from Rick. 

“I mean, I could be,” Rick shrugged. “Pretty sure they’re keeping the prize money back there, so we could sneak in, grab it and go.”

Stan’s eyes darted around the bar. Most of the security guards were near the entrance. Apparently someone was starting a fight. Perfect timing, this meant there were less guards near wherever the cash box was. 

Stan turned back to Rick. “Okay, yeah, let’s go.”

Rick grabbed Stan’s hand and nearly dragged Stan to the back area of the bar. Stan could barely keep up; Rick’s stride was lengthened by his heels. It didn't help that Stan had to walk/run with his hand cupped over his crotch to cover his damn erection. Rick stopped abruptly just before a hallway, giving Stan barely enough time to stop to avoid a full  boner body collision. Rick pressed against the wall and turned his head around the corner. 

“Damn, there’s still two guards back there.”

Stan wasn’t paying attention. Rick had bent over just enough for his skirt to lift, showing off his pert ass. Stan kept flitting between looking and not looking. 

“Hey, if you’ve really got a wrench in your pocket, now would be a great time to hand it over,” Rick was still looking into the hall. 

“Huh? What?” Stan had given in to staring at Rick’s ass. 

“I need something to throw at these guys.”

Well, there was definitely no wrench in Stan’s pocket. That was all happiness. Stan looked around and saw an empty beer bottle on a nearby table. 

“Is this good?” He passed the bottle to Rick.

Rick turned around and took the bottle. He examined it, shrugged, and tossed it behind him into the hallway. A yelp and a loud swear came from the hallway. Rick pulled Stan close. Before Stan knew it, Rick was kissing him. Stan was confused, but he wasn’t going to complain. Rick wrapped one leg around Stan and leaned them both against the wall as a guard ran out from the hallway. The guard then saw the fight going on at the entrance and ran towards it. Rick pulled away, looking dissatisfied. He pushed Stan away and checked down the hallway again. The other guard was collapsed on the floor. The bottle Rick had thrown had hit him on the head. 

“Oh my god, is this dude still alive?” Rick said when he walked up to the door the guard was in front of.

Stan tried not to look down when Rick bent over to check the guard’s pulse. He failed, and pretty miserably too. He only stopped looking when he noticed Rick was checking for keys instead of a pulse. The keys had to have been on the other guard because Rick didn’t find any on the guard before him. He pulled out a bobby pin from his wig and began picking the lock. 

“Stop staring at my ass and keep a lookout, will ya?” Rick said. 

Stan stuttered out an “ok” and turned around. Rick took out a second bobby pin to jam and jiggle into the lock. He cursed when one pin broke and took out another. He cursed again when that pin broke too. 

“Want me to try?” Stan offered. 

Rick grumbled and stood back to let Stan have a go at the door. It took two more bobby pins to get the door unlocked. Stan turned back to Rick, grinning. Rick just smirked and pushed ahead of Stan. The room was a little small and relatively bare. To the boys’ left was an office desk and chair; to the right, a floor safe. 

“You any good with safes?” Rick sat on top of it. 

Stan wasn’t really; he hadn’t had too many opportunities to practice, but any chance to impress Rick was a chance he would jump at. Stan put his head to the safe and turned the dial slowly, listening to the tumblers. It wasn’t easy. Stan had no instruments to help hear better, and the bass from the dance floor carried into the back room. It was slow, tedious work, but Stan got the safe open. Rick pushed Stan aside and took out a cash box from the safe. Unfortunately, that too was locked, and Rick had run out of bobby pins. 

“Allow me,” Stan said, taking the box from Rick and placing it on top of the safe. 

Then he pounded his fist into the box. 

The lock of the cash box broke open as the box’s top collapsed under Stan’s fist. Rick clapped as Stan coaxed the box open. A small stack of twenty dollar bills rubber banded together was in the left most section of the box. Rick took it and the few tens and fives in the box and stuck them in his shirt. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he said as he adjusted his bra. 

Rick took Stan’s hand (Yes, Stan blushed) and pulled him out of the room. The guard in front was beginning to stir, so Rick kicked him. It was intended to knock the guard back out, but it was mostly for fun. Rick and Stan ran out of the bar, not even bothering to stop to see who was winning the fake prize check.


	14. Chapter 14

Rick had his feet up on the dashboard of Stan’s car. The back of his seat was angled back as he counted the money he and Stan had just stolen. Stan was driving, but not really paying attention to which streets he was taking. 

“So,” Stan broke the silence. “Where’d you get the outfit?”

“Oh, this used to be my old Communion dress. But then I ‘refurbished’ it. Plus thrifting.”

“And the wig?”

“Straight up just stole that,” Rick laughed. “This thing cost two hundred bucks; I wasn’t going to pay a cent of that.”

Stan didn’t know what else to say, so he drove on in silence. 

“How’s your hand?” Rick asked abruptly. “Should I kiss it to make it better?”

Stan hadn’t even thought about his hand. Stan’s hand was fine, but Rick had taken it and kissed it anyways. Stan chuckled.

“How about your dick?” Rick put his hand on Stan’s crotch. 

Stan nearly jumped out of his skin. Rick snickered as he put his feet down and leaned over to Stan’s lap. 

“Whoa, whoa, wait, hold on,” Stan stammered.

Rick paused. “What, do you not want to?”

“Oh god, no, yeah, I want to,” Stan said. “Just let me pull over.”

Stan turned left when his light turned green. He pulled into the parking lot of a plaza featuring a convenience store and some outlets. The place Stan figured they would least get caught for public indecency was a barely lit stretch of asphalt behind the buildings. As soon as Stan put the car into park, Rick’s fingers were on Stan’s zipper. 

“Sproing,” Rick said as he got the zipper of Stan’s jeans down and Stan’s dick popped up a little bit more after being less restrained.

“Oh my god,” Stan laughed. “You’re the worst.”

“I can be worse,” Rick took Stan’s cock out. “Look at this, it’s like a beer can.”

“ _ Jesus _ .”

Rick licked the tip. “Gotta love that Pabst Blue.”

Stan moaned, part arousal and part mortification. “Are you gonna be like this the whole time?”

“I’m damn sure gonna try,” Rick licked Stan’s shaft. “I know a lot of beers.”

Stan muttered something about believing it as he lay back and let Rick suck him off. He couldn’t stop grinning, even as Rick made terrible references to beer brands some of which Stan hadn’t heard of. Rick’s mouth on his dick was probably the best thing Stan had ever felt in his life. If he had died at that moment, he wouldn’t have noticed because heaven would have been the exact same experience. 

Rick knew Stan was having the time of his life. Stan was very unabashed by his moans and the way he was saying Rick’s name. Rick figured Stan was getting pretty close by how loud he was, so Rick pulled Stan’s dick out of his mouth for one last beer quip. What Rick didn’t figure was exactly how close Stan was to orgasm, so Rick got a nice face full of semen just as he was about to say something clever about staying thirsty. 

“Mother of FUCK!” Rick cried out. “Every goddamn time!”

“Shit, are you ok?” Stan reached out towards Rick.

“Don’t touch me!” Rick yelled, eyes scrunched closed. 

Stan recoiled. Wow, he’d really fucked this up spectacularly. Guy of his dreams give him a beej and he pays it back by spraying jizz on the guy’s face. 

“Oh my god,” Rick said, eyes still closed. “Is it in my hair?”

“Uh-”  _ That’s _ what Rick was worried about? “No.”

“Good. Get this shit off my face.”

“Uh, hold on.”

Stan got out of the car to walk to the convenience store. He hoped there was nothing that seemed suspicious out of buying a six pack of bottled water and a roll of paper towels at two in the morning. The cashier didn’t say anything and Stan tried not to rush out of the store too quickly getting back to Rick. 

Rick wasted no time wiping off his face when Stan got back. He’d been impatient, and wiped off most of Stan’s crime with a dry paper towel. Then he tried again with a wet towel to get the more stubborn junk off.

“My makeup is ruined, thanks to you,” Rick said as he poured water directly onto his face. 

“Well, that can’t be helping it,” Stan said, watching the water trail down Rick’s chest. “You’re getting the money wet.”

Rick stopped pouring water on his face and took the money out of his shirt. Then he took his shirt off. Stan stared.

“Come on,” Rick undid his bra. “You’ve seen them before.”

“Yeah, but-” Stan mentally sputtered as he watched Rick take his bra off. “Fuck.”

God, Rick was hot. 

“You know,” Rick said as he unclipped his wig and threw it in the back seat. “I’ve been giving you way too many freebies.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s see,” Rick reached over to turn on the engine and cranked the car’s heat. “I just blew you. I made out with you the other day. I let you touch my ass. I let you see my tits all the time. At this point, the least you can do is suck me off too.”

“Ok, yeah,” Stan thought it over, nodding. “I guess that’s fair. I’ve just never-”

“What, you’ve never sucked dick before?”

“No, I have-”

Rick snickered.

“No, I have!” Stan insisted. “Just not with a-”

“A trans guy?” Rick’s expression turned stony. 

“Uh, yeah.”

Rick nodded, expressionless. He folded his arms across his chest and looked out his window. The car’s heater filled the air with white noise. 

“Listen, I’ll do it,” Stan said. “I’m not gonna... _ not _ pay the favor back.”

Stan tentatively put his hand on Rick’s thigh. Rick didn’t try to move Stan’s hand away, so Stan figured that was a good sign. Rick didn’t turn to face Stan either, so maybe Stan just stood at a middle ground. 

“Ok,” Rick said after a few moments. “Okay. Here’s how this is gonna go down. I’m not gonna get blown behind a convenience store. I’ve got standards.”

“You just blew me behind a convenience store-”

“That’s different. Now: drive up to the lake.”

Well, that was a weird request, but really Stan was gonna do anything for Rick. He restarted the car and drove out of the convenience store’s parking lot. Rick gave directions and after twenty minutes they drove up to a toll booth at the entrance of the park that hosted the lake. Stan was about to park the car on the side of the street but Rick just got out of the car, fiddled with the control box of the arm of the booth, and then manually lifted the arm, indicating that Stan should pass through with the car. After Stan illegally entered the park, Rick got back into the car and told Stan to drive past the parking lot and to the bank of the lake. When Stan pulled up the parking brake, Rick got out of the car again. This time he just took a seat on the hood of the Stanleymobile. Stan didn’t want to feel like an idiot, waiting for his next set of instructions, so he followed Rick out. 

“Are we gonna fuck in the lake or…?” Stan asked.

“God no,” Rick replied. “Geese shit in there. No, just give me head while I’m on your car. That’s hot, right?”

Stan thought it over. “Yeah. Actually, that is pretty hot.”

Rick lifted his leg in the air. “So come on, give me the ol’ razzle dazzle.”

“God,” Stan laughed. “Well, I’ll do my best.”

Stan got onto his knees and ate the shit out of Rick Sanchez, my dudes. Just kidding, he fumbled just getting Rick’s skirt off. Then, after removing Rick’s underwear, Stan just did nothing for two minutes except take in the view of Rick Sanchez, fully nude. Luckily for Rick, it was seventy degrees out because it was California, so he didn’t risk any chance of freezing any vital parts off. Finally, Stan spread open Rick’s legs. 

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?” Rick tensed.

“Nothing, you’re just bigger than I thought you’d be.”

“Pfft,” Rick covered up his grin. “Try not to choke on it.”

Stan made a show out of licking his lips before nestling his face down between Rick’s legs. Rick moaned softly when Stan put his lips on Rick’s clit. Rick ran his hands thought Stan’s hair and pulled Stan closer. Grinning, Stan flicked his tongue against Rick’s clit. That got out a soft “oh fuck” from Rick.

“Thought you’d be a louder guy,” Stan lifted his head up.

“You’re gonna have to work for that,” Rick said, pushing Stan’s head back down. 

Well, Stan was definitely going to work harder then. Rick put his feet on Stan’s back and looked up at the stars. He could spot the Capricornus constellation. The moon reflected off the lake’s surface while Stan lapped at Rick’s pussy. 

“Stan,” Rick said after a few minutes, “this feels nice and all, but I’m getting a little impatient.”

Stan paused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Rick sat up. “I want you to fuck me, with your cock.”

Rick leaned down to unzip Stan’s pants.

“Got any gas left in your tank?” Rick took out Stan’s cock and stroked it slowly.

Stan chuckled. “That’s not a beer pun.”

“I’m all out,” Rick replied. “I’ve got car puns now.”

Stan couldn’t believe he had a crush on this guy. Rick took Stan’s hand and placed it on his chest. Stan audibly gasped. He’d been dreaming of this ever since he saw Rick topless.

“Honk honk,” Rick said as he squeezed his hand over Stan’s. 

Stan snorted and grabbed Rick’s other tit. They were soft, like Stan had hoped. He dipped his head and kissed Rick’s nipple. Rick moaned and wriggled under Stan. 

“Come on,” Rick whined. “Fuck me already.”

“I’m getting to it,” Stan hummed, nuzzling his face between Rick’s breasts. 

“You can do that with your cock inside me,” Rick told Stan. 

Stan couldn’t argue that. He was hard as shit and he didn’t have anything to lose by giving Rick what Rick wanted. Stan eagerly stuffed his cock inside Rick. Rick closed his eyes and moaned happily. Stan started his thrusts out slow, choosing to focus on playing with Rick’s boobs. He was perfectly happy with squeezing and kissing them. However, Rick was vocal about what he wanted: harder, deeper, faster. Stan was just as happy to oblige. Rick was getting loud and Stan loved it. 

Rick came with a shout, balling his fists in the back of Stan’s shirt. High off sex, Rick wrapped his legs around Stan’s waist and begged Stan to come in him. Stan couldn’t resist. He came loudly, louder than Rick did. A few startled geese took flight away from the noise. Rick and Stan burst out laughing at the terrified honks of the birds. 

“Do you have any gum?” Rick asked. 

“Yeah, hold on,” Stan detached himself from Rick and got back into the car. 

Stan rummaged around in his glove compartment, looking for a pack of gum. While he was looking, a box of condoms fell out. At first, he didn’t pay it any mind. He had totally forgotten about those. Oh shit, he forgot about those. 

“Hey, Rick?” Stan called from inside the Stanleymobile. “You can’t get pregnant, can you?”

“Shit, man,” Rick rolled off the car’s hood. “You’re gonna ask me that after you use me as your cum dumpster?”

“Hey man, you told me to,” Stan got out of the car and handed the gum to Rick. 

“I guess,” Rick stuffed five sticks of gum in in his mouth. 

“But are you?” Stan pressed. 

“Relax,” Rick stretched. “I can’t get pregnant. I’m all dried up in there.”

Stan let out a huge sigh of relief. He sat on his car’s hood next to Rick and leaned back. What an incredible night he’d had. He never thought he’d get to fuck Rick so soon. 

“Hey,” Stan turned to Rick. “Was that good for you too?”

“Shit, I don’t think it was as good for me as it was for you,” Rick laughed. “But yeah, I had a blast.”

Stan grinned, glad to hear it.

Rick began to collect his clothing off the grass. “We gotta start heading home. It’s like three in the morning or something.”

“Oh, right,” Stan got off the car’s hood. 

Stan let Rick get back into the car first. Then he slid into the driver’s seat. Before starting the car, he took one last look at Rick. Rick had put his halter back on, as well as the skirt. He was looking out the window, chin resting against his hand and his elbow propped up against the window. Stan thought he looked beautiful. Then Stan turned the key in the ignition and drove out of the park.

They arrived at their apartment twenty minutes later. The drive home had been quiet. Rick seemed tired and Stan just didn’t know what to say. They said goodnight quietly in the hallway and then Rick disappeared behind his room’s door. Stan tired walked back into his room and collapsed on his mattress. Ford was asleep too, except at the desk. Stan was too tired to wake his brother to get him to sleep in a proper location. Stan was too tired to even take his clothes off. He was too tired to remember to set his alarm for work. He was too tired to remember he even had work. As soon as his head hit his pillow, Stan was unconscious, extremely happy and completely smitten.


	15. Chapter 15

Ford woke up with a gnawing pain in the middle of his back. That's what he got for sleeping at his desk. He didn’t even remember falling asleep. He peeled himself off his chemistry homework and sleepily made his way to the bathroom. After washing up, he was slightly more conscious. He was conscious enough to realize someone was at the door; he was not conscious enough to put on clothes before answering. Bill was delighted to be greeted by a sleepy Ford fresh out of the shower, with damp hair and a small towel around his waist. 

“My,” Billford breathed. “You sure know how to dress for a first date.” 

Confused, Ford looked down to see what exactly he was wearing. He was extremely embarrassed to find he was wearing almost nothing at all. Panicking, he closed the door on Bill and rushed back to his room to put on pants and a sweater. Then he rushed back to the front door to apologize for being rude. 

“No need to apologize,” Bill let himself into the apartment. “I always enjoy a happy trail in the morning.”

Ford’s face flushed redder than a beet. He started apologizing again, but Bill cut him off. 

“Ford sweetie,” Bill laughed. “Believe me, you’re already off to a great start. Let’s go to brunch.”

Ford shut himself up. Well, he had to excuse himself to grab his wallet and keys. Then he shut up and followed Bill out the door. Outside the apartment, Bill’s limousine waited. It was a sleek black thing with glitter in its paint. Its interior was just as luxurious. White leather under black light looked gorgeous. The car rode incredibly smoothly as well. With the windows tinted a pitch black, Ford could barely tell when the vehicle was moving. 

“Where are we going for brunch?” Ford asked. 

“I have an excellent chef at home who studied the master track at Le Cordon Bleu,” Bill answered. “He’ll cook you anything you want.”

That sounded very exciting. It also sounded very expensive. Clearly, Bill was from a completely different world. Ford worried he would again make himself an ass. Would he order food that Bill would consider too lowbrow? Would his manners be offensive to Bill’s high class sensibilities? Ford started to feel his heart pound and rise into his throat. 

“Are you ok?” Bill noticed Ford paling slightly. 

“Oh, just a bit nervous,” Ford replied. “I don’t want to embarrass myself in your house.”

“Oh, Fordsy,” Bill scooted closer to Ford. “You don’t need to feel embarrassed in front of me. We’re friends.”

Bill emphasized the word “friends”, but his hand was on Ford’s thigh. Ford’s anxiety flared at the touch. This was a date, but was it a  _ date _ -date?

The limo rolled to a stop outside Billford’s house. Ford nearly choked when he saw it. There was so much gold. The gate was made of wrought gold. There were golden imitation vines climbing up the walls. The roof was tiled with gold. It was more than opulent, it was ostentatious. 

“You live here?” Ford was bewildered. 

“Oh yeah,” Billford walked down the front yard’s marbled tiled path. “My family lives in the one next door.”

“You mean, all that is just for you?” Ford followed, still looking at the mansion’s roof. 

“What can I say?” Billford opened the front door, which was also leafed in gold. “I like my privacy.”

Well, that was one way to get privacy. Ford was just as awed with the interior of the house as he was with the exterior. Clearly, Bill was a fan of marble, gold, high ceilings, and floor to ceiling windows. Bill brought Ford into the kitchen, where a somber looking French man stood at the island stove. 

“My usual today, Guillaume,” Bill sat at the island stool seating. “And for my guest… what would you like, Ford?”

“Um, are waffles ok?” Ford asked 

“It’s doable,” Guillaume said. 

“Thank you, Gui,” Bill said. “We’ll take our food in the theater room.”

Bill took Ford’s arm and led him away. The theater room? Ford wondered. Did Bill have a whole separate room just for a TV and VCR set up? Rich people were something else. 

The theater room, Ford found out, was not a TV and VCR set up after all. It was rows and rows of velvet chairs in front a Broadway sized stage. A large projector screen was hanging from the ceiling above the stage. On the far side of the room were stairs that led up to a small projector room. 

“Oh,” Ford said. “So you meant a  _ literal movie theater _ room.”

Bill laughed and led Ford to the middle aisle, where they sat with their feet stretching out into the empty space of the fire break. 

“So are we going to watch a movie too?” Ford asked. Now this felt very date-date. A meal by itself could be constituted as a way for acquaintances to become friends. A meal  _ and  _ a movie sounded like a romantic outing. 

“A show, really,” Bill corrected. 

Oh. Ok. A tv show sounded much more platonic. Ford let himself relax in his velvet chair. 

“So what was your major again?” Bill turned in his seat to face Ford. 

“Well, I’m in the applied sciences track, but I haven’t really decided on my concentration yet,” Ford answered. 

“Huhm,” Bill hummed, resting his cheek in his hand. “What were you thinking of?”

“Well,” Ford said. “I’ve never really struggled with any sort of science. Biology, chemistry, physics, the works: it’s all come easy to me. I could do well in any one of those. But it’s really the weird science that’s always interested me.”

“Weird science?” Bill repeated. 

“Yeah! Weird things like paranormal events. Like, well, crop circles are a very basic example, but events like those. Phenomena that people like to say can’t be explained by science, but the fact of the matter is, everything can be explained by science if you just use the right science. You can’t explain how water goes from a liquid to a gas using biology. You have to physics or chemistry. Just like that, you have to use weird science to explain weird things,” Ford enthused. “It’s such an untapped and overlooked field of study and I-”

“Your brunch, sirs,” Guillaume suddenly appeared, pushing a food cart with two silver service plates.

Guillaume set up two wooden foldable tables in front of Bill and Ford. He set down one plate on each table and lifted the lids. Bill’s plate revealed rare steak but fully cooked eggs both equally smothered in nutella hazelnut spread. Ford’s face contorted in barely masked confusion. He had never seen Nutella steak and eggs in his life, and he doubted it was even edible. Ford’s plate was definitely edible: champagne waffles with chocolate butter and blood orange syrup. Still, he hadn’t ever seen waffles like that before either and he was wary about its edibility as well. 

“Wow,” Bill cooed. “You’ve truly outdone yourself this time, Gui.”

“You’re too kind, sir. Will that be all?”

Bill dismissed Gui with a wave of his hand and began eating. Hungry enough to eat anything at this point, For took a tentative bite of his waffle. He was surprised to find it was actually very delicious. Ford ate eagerly. While he was eating, the lights of the theater dimmed and a strange audio track began playing. It seemed to be a conversation between a mother and child, with the mother telling the child to put his toy trains away. Ford looked up to see where the sound was coming from. He assumed the show Bill had talked about was starting, but the stage was obscured by velvet curtains. Ford looked towards Bill for an answer, but Bill was just looking straight at the stage. Ford looked back and the curtains parted as loud rock music started playing. The projector screen had been retracted and the stage had been set up to look like a skate park. An entire chorus ensemble on roller skates and costumed to look like anthropomorphic trains skated onto the stage singing and doing the most ludicrous routine with flips and tricks. Ford dropped his fork, mesmerized. 

Ford’s dropped fork remained dropped for the next two hours. His waffles went cold, a victim of rollerskating trains, a convoluted plot, some sweet flips, and a generous display of pyrotechnics. 

When the curtain fell at the end of the show, Bill turned to Ford. “So what did you think ?”

“I-” Ford snapped out of the trance the musical had left him in. “I had no idea what was going on. But it all seemed very hard to do and the actors are very talented.”

“Yeah, they’re great, aren’t they? It’s nice to have your own troupe.”

“Do you...own them?” Ford asked.

“Don’t be silly, you can’t own a person,” Bill laughed. “I just hire them to privately entertain me and my guests.”

Ford had to take a moment to process this. “So you just hired an entire troupe just for a bunch?”

“No, they’re available to me on call.”

Ford nodded. At this point, he knew asking questions would not help him understand any more. It was really incredible what could be done with enough money. 

“I’m glad you agreed to brunch, Ford,” Bill stood up. “I’d be happy if you came over again.”

Ford thought about it. He’d been given good food. Bill had even put on a show for him, literally. It had been a good time. “Yeah, I might.”

Bill’s smile spread wide across his face. For a second, Ford thought Bill’s smile was too wide to be possible. Then Bill’s smile shortened to a normal length and Ford thought the dim lighting of the theater was tricking his eyes. 

Ford followed Bill back to the limo. Before the limo left, Guillaume brought Ford his uneaten waffles in a small cake box. Ford took it awkwardly. Gui looked a bit sullen, as if insulted Ford hadn’t eaten his food. So much for not embarrassing himself in Bill’s home. 

Bill took a close seat to Ford inside the limo. “So tell me more about  _ weird science _ .”

“Ah!” Ford lit up. “Right. Well, weird science can include cryptozoology, autodynamics, electrogravitics, memetics, cerealogy, electronic voice phenomenon, extrasensory perception, the Tunguska event-”

“Nothing about turning dolls into life size women?”

“What? Oh, you’re referencing the movie. Heh, that’s a good one. Unfortunately, that movie uses absolutely no science at all. Just a lot of technobabble. I was disappointed, too.” 

Bill hummed. Cute that Ford thought any production would contain any truthful science. It was called the “magic of Hollywood” for a reason, sweetie. 

The limo stopped in front of Ford’s apartment complex. The driver opened the door on Ford’s side and Ford stepped out of the vehicle. Bill didn’t exit, but shuffled across the seats to speak to Ford through the window. 

“Well, Stanford, it has been an absolute delight,” Bill held out his hand. 

Ford, thinking Bill was offering an handshake, took Bill’s hand. Therefore, he was extraordinarily surprised when Bill kissed the knuckles of Ford’s fingers. 

“See you in class,” Bill said and the limo sped away before Ford could fully process what had just happened.


End file.
